The Legacy of Honour
by L Zaza
Summary: Starbuck doesn't go looking for trouble, but somehow it always manages to find him.  Takes place after the Magnificent Warriors, segueing into the Young Lords.  Complete.
1. Chapter 1

The Legacy of Honour

Starbuck dropped into a chair beside Boomer, pulling a fumarello out of his flight jacket and clamping it firmly between his teeth. The taste was like an old friend, offering familiarity and comfort, yet demanding nothing in return except perhaps to be lit. It was such a little thing, really.

He patted down his flight jacket, pulling out a match and striking it on the arm of his chair for the sake of expedience, ignoring the disapproving glance his buddy tossed him. The match flared to life, burning hot and bright for the briefest of moments as Starbuck gazed into the fire. Momentarily mesmerized, he silently puffed on his fumarello, drawing in the intoxicating vapours. For a centon he was back in Serenity, the ground shaking beneath his feet like it was the end of the world, as they stood in the torch-lit street facing down a hoard of stampeding Borays. The heart of the flame flared, pulling him further into his recent memories, and he was once again standing in Nogow's lair, surrounded by the porcine-like beings, negotiating for the terrified Belloby's release, trying to talk his way into convincing the Boray leader that they really weren't so different after all. The long and the short of it was he'd done it. Suddenly, the flame licked his fingers. With a flick of his wrist it was dead, extinguished for all of eternity, nothing left but a smouldering wispy trail.

"Drink?"

Boomer hadn't bothered to wait for a reply before signalling the barkeep to send over a round. Some things were a given, and after their mission to the little agro community to obtain planting seed for the Fleet after two Agro ships had been destroyed and the third had lost its air lock, a drink was definitely in order.

"To your , uh . . . _poor character_," Boomer said, raising his refreshed glass to his friend.

"I'll have you know I've spent yahrens perfecting it," Starbuck replied in mock indignation, picking up on the reference to Apollo's words in the Serenity saloon.

"And a fine job you've done," Boomer quipped. "Just ask Siress Belloby."

Starbuck winced in memory at what had almost befallen the boisterous woman. Bogan had said that the Borays had taken their "females" in the past, but none had been in evidence in Nogow's lair. It didn't bode well for the missing women. Wild porcine in the colonies were known to eat flesh, did the Borays as well? It was horrifying to even contemplate, but other possibilities were equally repugnant. It was no wonder that Belloby had kissed him so effusively later in the saloon. Starbuck caught Boomer's amused glance and grinned good-naturedly. Oh well, at least she'd bought him a drink afterwards.

"Siress Belloby recommended me for a commendation," Starbuck said aloud.

"Commendable of her," Boomer replied, taking a long drink, before leaning closer to his friend. "I'm still trying to figure out how you managed to convince Nogow to trust you."

Starbuck shrugged. "Boomer, if I put my mind to it, I could talk a novice Kobollian Priestess into skinny dipping with me at the Sacred Aerian Wellspring the day before taking her final vows."

Boomer raised his eyebrows. "Are you claiming . . .?"

Starbuck grinned, taking a sip of his drink. Now that was a path down memory lane that was more worth pursuing, and certainly evoked more pleasant emotions in him. At least . . .

"I don't know _how_ you do it." Boomer shook his head, rolling his eyes.

"It's a gift." Starbuck shrugged, looking up to see Apollo standing at the entrance, scanning the room. He held up a hand, drawing his friend's attention to them. The captain frowned, before heading towards them. "Here's Apollo."

"He doesn't look too happy."

Boomer was right. Apollo's frown quickly turned to a glower the closer he drew to them.

"Why do I get the feeling he's not here to tell me they're going to decorate me?" Starbuck quipped, his gut twisting into a knot. Even with the planting seed they'd managed to get from Serenity, they were still down two agro ships, and repairs hadn't been completed on the third. In a situation where food supplies were already tight, the disaster had only been ameliorated to a certain measure.

"Better get those delusions of grandeur out of you head, before Apollo does it for you," Boomer commented, sitting more erect as a similar tension affected him.

"Take away my delusions of grandeur, and there wouldn't be much left," Starbuck returned, his anxiety rising with each step his captain took. What the frack had happened now?

"There's a disconcerting amount of truth in that statement, Starbuck," Boomer rambled.

"I might be shallow, but at least I'm honest," Starbuck replied.

"Shallow and honest: weren't those qualities part of the recruitment ad of 7339?"

"173_8_."

"I stand corrected. That makes all the difference."

"You're sitting actually, but why quibble . . .?"

"Did you actually just say 'quibble'?"

"According to Greenbean, it was the Colonial Lexicon Word of the Day . . ."

A micron later, Captain Apollo was standing in front of him, his features like a Scorpian firestorm as he glared at the lieutenant. Suddenly, Starbuck had the idea that this newest disaster was one of a more personal nature. The problem was he couldn't think of a single thing that he'd done lately that would warrant his commanding officer's apparent anger.

"What's going on?" Starbuck managed, swallowing hard when Apollo's green eyes flashed dangerously at him. He hastily added, "Captain. Sir."

"Commander Adama wants to see you, Lieutenant. _Now_."


	2. Chapter 2

Apollo was uncharacteristically silent as he escorted Starbuck to Commander Adama's office. The lieutenant's tentative attempts to probe the strike captain as to the nature of the situation were inexorably shut down with a clipped tone and patented glower reminiscent of Academy disciplinary hearings, which didn't exactly invite further conversation. Usually breaches of conduct, derelictions of duty, or indiscretions were handled by an officer's direct superior, and for Starbuck to be taken to the top of the chain of command for disciplinary measures, it could only mean he was in a mong load of trouble.

Make that a _mega_ mong load.

Once again he wracked his brain, trying to come up with _something_ that could have enraged his friend to this extent. Surely to God this wasn't about dating Athena and Cassiopeia concurrently? After all, he'd been doing that with his usual alacrity and trademark indecision for several sectons by this point. Adama had been too much of a gentleman to even allude to it, at least as long as the younger man hadn't done anything to overtly hurt Athena, and although Apollo had mentioned Starbuck's "commitment issues" in passing, he as well, had cut the wayward warrior some considerable slack on his indelicate social activities, keeping his nose out of his friend and sister's personal lives. No, that couldn't be it . . . so what had he done to earn his friend and commander's ire? Anxiety settled around him like a cloud of doom and his internal klaxon was screaming by the time he reached his destination.

With an annoyed look that Starbuck was not only in his way, but also apparently still consuming valuable air, Apollo reached across him, activating the entry chime.

"_Apollo_ . . ." Starbuck appealed to his friend a final time.

The captain sighed, his angry façade slipping for a moment. He shook his head slightly. "Damn, Starbuck. How do you manage to get yourself in these situations? I know there has to be _some_ kind of explanation, but . . . _frack_, Starbuck! I can't for the life of me figure out what that would be right now! Mutant genetics? Good Lords!"

Starbuck opened his mouth to further press his friend for information.

"Enter!" barked the voice from within.

At this point Starbuck's heart officially dropped into his boots, or so it seemed to him. Then again, maybe it was all some kind of practical joke at his expense. That was about his only hope. Unfortunately, Commander Adama wasn't exactly known for being a knee-slapping jokester. Surely if Starbuck had done something that merited the dressing down that he knew was coming, then he should know about it, or at the very least have an inkling of an idea. However, he was at a complete loss as to what he was about to walk into when the door slid open before them.

Although military decorum was considerably relaxed on the _Galactica_ in the aftermath of the Holocaust and with so many new people joining the ranks, the trained Colonial Warrior recognized when it was time to revert to the more traditional behaviours that had been drilled into him back at the Academy. He marched into the office, his gaze quickly sweeping the room, absorbing the presence of the young civilian woman seated to the right on the longseat beneath the viewport. A kerchief covered most of her head, and what he could see of her downturned face was smudged with dirt. Her drab brown robe was tattered, and it covered up her slight form modestly. She carried a small bundle in her arms, swaddled in a cloth of the same material as her cloak, and it took him but a micron to realize it was a sleeping baby. Tucked in beside the woman was a small tote bag packed to capacity, also cut from the same worn cloth. He'd seen countless numbers of women just like her when he'd pulled inspection duty through the Fleet, but he didn't recall this one in particular. Had she reported him for something? It had to be some kind of misunderstanding. Hopefully, they could clear this up quickly so he could get back to his ambrosa. Abruptly, he came to a halt and stood at attention before Adama's desk, Apollo at his side.

"Lieutenant Starbuck, reporting as ordered, sir." One glance at the look in Adama's eyes, and his heart—until now at the lowest point in his footwear—took that opportunity to retreat further, finding an opening into another dimension.

"Yes," Adama replied, slowly rising to his feet, his gaze scrutinizing the warrior almost contemptuously. With a single glance, Adama had the ability to make a decorated war hero feel like he was a complete bilge rat. Then an almost paternal concern transformed the older man's features, as he gazed on the figure seated a few metrons away. "I believe introductions are unnecessary, Lieutenant."

"Hello, Starbuck," she whispered timorously.

Briefly, her eyes met his before she bowed her head timidly, looking back at her lap. His breath caught in his throat and his mouth went dry, his mind denying what his eyes had suggested to him. It simply couldn't be . . .

"Thank the Lords of Kobol that you are alive," she said quietly, her face downcast. "We are indeed blessed. . ." She said something else, but by then her tone was so low that he couldn't hear her.

His heart pounding, Starbuck crossed the meagre distance that separated them, his mind struck dumb as he tried to rationalize her presence. He shook his head mutely, unable to comprehend how she could be sitting here in front of him. And the baby . . .

"Look at me," he said coarsely, realizing he sounded harsh as she cowered in reaction to his tone. Adama cleared his throat noisily from behind his desk in warning. Apollo actually crossed the room to stand like a sentinel beside her. Looking at the pitiable sight before him, Starbuck could understand their protective posturing as well as their anger.

Clearing his throat, he dropped to a knee in front of her, getting a whiff of stale body odour that he had detected often on the freighters more suited to cargo than human occupation. Starbuck reached a hand out slowly, and she shrunk back from him before drawing a rasping breath and apparently willing herself into some frozen state of acceptance for whatever was going to happen next. It made him feel a little abashed, but he persevered, ever so slowly pushing the kerchief back until it dropped onto her slender shoulders, revealing shoulder-length dull and unwashed tawny hair. He swallowed down the lump in his throat, before repeating more calmly, "Look at me."

Once again she lifted her chin, and those wide blue eyes were full of uncertainty. Her cheekbones were sharply defined and the hollows over her collar bones told the usual tale of substandard nutrition in the Fleet, about to be made worse by the recent destruction of the Agro Ships. There was a haunted look in her eyes that made him uncomfortable; it made him want to walk away . . . or run. That look was typical of most survivors of the Destruction that were still struggling to get by, and he knew as well as anyone that some ships had better living conditions than others.

Still, when he looked beyond the malnutrition, the trauma and the fear in her eyes, he could still see the vivacious and beautiful woman that she had once been. He could still remember her fearlessness, her determination, her natural sensuality, her lust for life, and her passion for taking care of the unfortunate and downtrodden. She was taking rapid shallow breaths, belying her nervousness, or was it illness, as she forced herself to sit still beneath his scrutiny. _What_ had happened? _Why_ hadn't he known? Starbuck closed his eyes, covering his face shamefully with a hand, while he tried to reconcile the impossibility.

"_Honour?_" he finally rasped her name past the guilt and astonishment that threatened to choke him.

"Lieutenant," Adama said behind him. "This young woman tells me that she's your _wife_." The very tone of the commander's voice made him wince. "In fact, Lieutenant, she has both a certificate _and_ a holoptic of the two of you on your sealing day, some fifteen sectars ago, only a few sectars before you were transferred to the _Galactica_. Yet, as I'm sure you're imminently aware, your personnel file has no record of your marriage, nor have you deigned to mention it to any of your friends or . . . _acquaintances_, at least as far as _I'm_ aware. Your wife and child have been living in squalor, Starbuck, even before the Destruction." There was a long pause. "Now what do you have to say for yourself, Lieutenant?"


	3. Chapter 3

"But I . . . I didn't know!" Starbuck protested.

It wasn't much of a defence, but in the face of Adama's derision, it was the only one he had. He could see the incredulity in his esteemed commander's face. Slowly, Starbuck rose to his feet, turning away from Honour and her baby, bowing his head and raking a hand through his hair, as conflicting and turbulent emotions tore at him.

"How could you _not_?" Adama countered. "In my experience, when it comes to wives and children, _husbands_ generally are aware, _Lieutenant_."

No, it didn't look impressive. After all, a married man should be over the moon with joy that his long-lost wife had returned from the dead. Hades hole, a _happily_ married man would have had a handy holoptic, a treasure trove of stories, and an instinctive habit of taking second glances at all the women who resembled his late spouse. A case in point was Apollo. Instead, not only had Starbuck failed to recognize Honour at the outset, but at this moment he felt well and truly trapped, much like a Viper in a deadly Pinwheel Attack. After all, _one_ of them was supposed to be dead right now, and through the admittedly cryptic mercy of the Lords of Kobol, he had believed it was _her_. Long ago he'd come to terms with Honour's supposed death—had in fact been a little relieved by it, as pathetic and deplorable as that sounded, even to his own mind.

"Starbuck?" Apollo prompted him, still waiting for a convincing explanation expectantly.

The commander's son had a faith in Starbuck that might not be entirely merited, as far as the lieutenant was concerned. But then Apollo had come from another world where villains were beyond understanding, and heroes were beyond contempt. For his part Starbuck had _tried_ to do the right thing by Honour, his own Kobollian upbringing as well as four yahrens at the Academy instilling within him with a strict morale code, which over his life he had redefined to his own advantage more often than not.

"We were sealed on Hoedus," Honour said tentatively, sensing that somehow Starbuck had been struck mute, lost in reflections of the past.

Adama raised his eyebrows at the young woman. "_Hoedus_? What were _you_ doing on Hoedus, Child?" He paused, coming up with the most plausible explanation. "Were you in the service?"

Hoedus had been a military base of operations on the outermost edge of the Acamar Quadrant. The battle there had been one of the Colonies' greatest defeats in living memory. Sudden and concurrent Cylon attacks at several remote outposts had refugees fleeing the quadrant, while command organized a convoy to provide a military escort out of the warzone. Unfortunately, a badly-timed communications breakdown had resulted in isolated civilian ships missing the rendezvous, and Colonial forces were splintered as they tried to respond to demands for assistance while engaging Base Ships on two fronts. Not only had they lost two capital ships and several secondary vessels, but the outpost itself had been blasted off the face of the planetoid leaving no survivors, as the Cylons relentlessly increased their territorial claim and expanded their empire. Afterwards, sorting out the missing from the dead had been a logistical nightmare, since most civilian and military records in that quadrant had been incinerated along with the hopes and dreams of the settlers.

"No, Commander. I was a Novice on a Mercy Ship," Honour replied softly, obviously uncomfortable at being the centre of attention. Assigned to the spiritual support of the ranks, Mercy Ships were the rare exception to civilians being allowed in warzones.

"A . . . a _Novice_?" Adama choked out in disgust, his face reddening as he again turned the force of his ire on Starbuck.

Starbuck winced. He'd forgotten her penchant for telling the complete truth, no matter how inconvenient. Yeah, it really couldn't get much worse at this point, especially from the authoritative or Kobollian perspective. The highborn and devout in the room would find it inexcusable that the "mere warrior" had been messing with a priestess in training from a Kobollian Mercy Ship, never mind getting her pregnant, marrying her, and then evidently abandoning her. Dear Lord, if the deck could open up and swallow him whole at this moment, it would be preferable to suffering Adama's wrath. Then again, it was pretty damn likely that the Lord was on his commander's side in all this. He'd be better off negotiating with Diabolis.

"Sagan's sake, Starbuck, _say_ something!" Apollo demanded, grabbing his friend by the shoulder and jerking him around to face them, his eyes boring into Starbuck's. Then he relaxed his insistent grip on the lieutenant's flight jacket, squeezing his shoulder briefly before adding more calmly, "C'mon, buddy. Tell us what this is all about."

Starbuck nodded at his friend, taking a step back from him, giving himself a little space.

"At the last centon, I was redeployed from the _Polaris_," he told them. "My unit suddenly had escort duty over Alcor." He gave himself a moment before continuing and noticed Adama wince. To put it mildly, it had been an utter disaster. "When we got there, it was already too late. The settlement had been attacked; the main city had been incinerated, and just about everything that could fly had been destroyed. But there were still isolated pockets of survivors hiding in the Willowwacks. We were ordered to find them and evacuate them. The trouble was . . . some of them didn't _want_ to be found."

It had never occurred to naïve young warriors that settlers would fight for the right to remain on their land, preferring death over defeat. A sense of urgency to mobilize survivors had contributed to a heated scene where civilians had turned their weapons on their rescuers, guys that were merely following orders. Perhaps these pioneers had only wanted to drive home a point, intending simply to reaffirm their decision to stay or to scare off the young men. Regardless, in an isolated part of Alcor their commanding officer was killed and the rest of them were pinned down, forced to defend themselves until cooler heads prevailed. The conflict had taken precious days to resolve, and by the time an uneasy truce was obtained, irreparable damage had been done to the ships left behind, emergency beacons and communications completely destroyed. Then, fearing retribution, the neo-colonists had suddenly turned on the warriors once again. This time they cooled their heels in a makeshift brig while two opposing groups argued about whether or not they could hide all evidence of what had transpired, including several fightercraft and a shuttle. It had seemed crazy at the time that the Willow Wackos, as Starbuck still remembered them, actually believed that they could offer the rescuing troops a chance to either join their numbers or accept lifetime imprisonment—until such time that they would elect to become a settler. They had incredulously believed that they could quietly secede from the Colonies, remaining invisible in that battered and isolated part of the system. At the time, the obvious choice was to accept a position in the community, and then find a way to transmit an emergency signal requesting help. That opportunity didn't arise for a solid sectar, and it had taken a further secton before the sweet rumble of Colonial engines signalled the end of their unreal adventure.

"We'd all been recorded as missing in action, Commander. As you can imagine, the data correction process was a nightmare. You wouldn't believe how long it took me to officially get reinstated for active duty. For some reason, my file in particular was a problem," Starbuck told them, glancing down at the young woman who had by now pulled her kerchief back in place, a trembling hand covering her face as she listened to his tale. "During that time, I _did_ try to find Honour, but couldn't actually find any record of her _being_ at Hoedus." He drew in a deep breath, sensing Apollo's steady gaze on him. His friend had heard selective stories about the Willow Wackos on long-range patrol, where solitude had a way of loosening a pilot's tongue. Of course, the event on Starbuck's military file had been abbreviated to an inadequate line or two, and the strike captain had been curious about it. Given Starbuck's unwillingness to talk about it and the file's extreme brevity, he'd concluded that the paucity of information was official. "Anyhow, I had hoped she left the base on the Mercy Ship. The Kobollian Order wasn't very helpful, insisting that there were privacy laws in place, and that only official documentation supporting evidence of our sealing or an order from the Arch-Prior bearing his seal would get them to check their records. In short, they didn't believe me. Of course, I had nothing substantial to offer to verify my story. It's doubtful our 'sealing' was even officially recorded, since a day later the base was incinerated. My only other option was to try and track down what had happened to the Mercy Ship. I finally found out it was listed as having been destroyed somewhere near Propus." He sighed, once again raking a hand through his hair, watching as Honour absorbed his words. Finally, she looked up at him with her wide blue eyes. "I thought you were. . . _dead_, Honour. I swear," he told her.

She dropped his gaze.

"I knew there had to _some_ kind of reasonable explanation," Apollo said, nodding. Still the captain was still studying his friend expectantly, probably wondering why Starbuck had never mentioned his deceased "wife". There would be time for that story later, to be sure, but the lieutenant was determined that it wouldn't take place in front of either Honour or Adama.

"Yes, I see," the commander said, somewhat appeased. "And then?"

"Yeah. Good question," Starbuck replied, taking a seat beside the young woman. "What happened, Honour? How could you just . . . disappear like that? Why didn't you contact me? You must have known I'd be looking for you. We were having a baby, for Sagan's sake."

The tremble in her hand was even more detectable by now. She looked at him, her eyes glistening, her pallor a sharp contrast against her cloak. "I . . ." She breathed the word heavily, like she'd run a race, while the baby shifted on her lap, starting to awaken. "I . . . I'm afraid I'm not feeling very . . . very well . . ."

"Shall I call a med tech?" Adama asked her, a paternal note of concern to his voice.

"No . . . I just . . . I think I need to lie down. I'm feeling a little light-headed. I'm sorry."

"Have you eaten anything, today?" Apollo asked her.

"I . . ." She looked surprised at the suggestion, then crinkled her brow as she considered it. "I honestly can't remember. I was a little distracted getting ready to make my way to the _Galactica_," she said, obviously embarrassed by her admission. "I'm sorry . . . I was a little nervous about all this. When I received word that Starbuck was still alive . . . I . . . well, I . . . I'm not really sure what I thought would happen. But I felt . . . _optimistic_ for the first time in a very long time." She smiled briefly at Starbuck, before shifting the baby onto her shoulder as it began to whimper in her arms. She began to sway from side to side in a comforting rocking motion. "I didn't mean for Starbuck to get into any trouble, Commander, Captain." She nodded at each of them in turn. "None of this was truly his fault. He's a good man, but I'm sure you must realize that, knowing him."

"Starbuck's not in any trouble," Adama reassured her, looking searchingly at Starbuck once again. "At least not under the circumstances. Lieutenant, take Honour to the Life Station . . ."

"The Life Station?" Starbuck's head snapped up. _Oh, he could see it now. Honour, I'd like you to meet Cassiopeia. Cassiopeia, this is Honour . . . my, uh . . . wife._

"I'm fine, really. I don't need a med tech," Honour protested, holding up a hand.

"You're sure?" Starbuck asked, nodding at the same time, as if reinforcing her words. The last thing he wanted to do right now was end up in a confrontation with Cassie.

"All the same, I want you both thoroughly examined," Adama said. "Our physicians are among the finest in the Fleet, Honour, and to be frank, you don't look all that well right now."

"If you insist, Commander Adama," Honour replied submissively, with a slight shrug. She pulled the strap of her tote over her shoulder, shifting the baby once again before she slowly stood up, weaving slightly on her feet.

Starbuck hastily stood, taking her arm to steady her, before relieving her of the tote bag. It was heavy, as if she had all of her worldly possessions within it.

"Thank you," she said warmly, pausing for a moment as the baby began to burble. Honour's face lit up at the sound, and she murmured nonsensically to the tot for a moment.

"What a happy child," Adama commented with a smile, as the baby laughed gleefully.

"She's my biggest joy, Commander," Honour replied. "Although, she'll be hungry soon, so we might need to stop to feed her. Is the Life Station far?"

"Not far," Starbuck replied, as she turned the baby around in her arms so he could get his first real look at his daughter. She had a full head of wavy blonde hair and huge blue eyes that seemed to take up most of her face. Her almost toothless smile was infectious, as she waved her hands in front of him, burbling, cooing and laughing.

Honour giggled. "She's flirting with you, Starbuck."

"Not only is she beautiful, but she has impeccable taste," Starbuck replied wryly.

"Do you want to hold her?" Honour offered.

"Uh . . . well . . ."

"Don't worry, she's not breakable," Honour reassured him, passing the tot over and helping Starbuck settle her in his arms. "She doesn't play strange with people."

His daughter was enchanting. His nervousness at holding her disappeared quickly when Tara wrapped her tiny little hand around his finger, clinging to him, squealing in apparent joy. It was the decisive turning point where all his doubts and fears about what would happen next magically disappeared, leaving him feel suddenly _optimistic_. He grinned at Honour before gazing back down at his daughter adoringly. Starbuck—rake, womanizer and heartbreaker—had a daughter. It was . . . unbelievable . . . and maybe just a little ironic. "What's her name, Honour?"

"Tara."

"Tara? Doesn't that mean . . .?" He swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat, as Tara started burbling _Da Da Da_ at him. His heart melted. He was in love.

"'Star' in Aerian," Honour replied, "she was called after her father, of course."

Starbuck smiled tenderly at his wife. Not only did he suddenly have a daughter, but for the first time that he could remember, he had a family.


	4. Chapter 4

Starbuck was getting more than a few peculiar looks from passers-by on the way to the Life Station. It was a bizarre situation, no question, but as he walked down the corridors of the _Galactica_, carrying his daughter and listening to Honour regale him with humorous stories of the child's first steps, he realized that it was time to act like a man and to accept responsibility for his family, as well as for deflowering an innocent Kobollian Novice the night before she was supposed to take her final vows to commit to an ancient, sacred sisterhood. Beyond her worn cloak and thin, unkempt appearance, Honour had an aura of fragility; her lingering naivety and haunting beauty made him want to protect her. Aside from that, she hadn't complained once about her thin circumstances or accused him of any wrongdoing, seeming to accept her lot in life as one of the few thousand Colonials "fortunate" enough to have survived the Holocaust. However, there was still that niggling question of what had happened to her _after_ Hoedus, and why she hadn't contacted him. Knowing Honour, as he did, there had to be a legitimate reason . . . but he still needed to hear it from her.

"Honour, after Hoedus . . ." he interrupted her story, his feet dragging as the entrance to the Life Station drew closer. Ahead of them, two hangar crewmen were heading towards them, visibly startling at the sight of the infamous Colonial Warrior holding a baby and escorting the thin, dishevelled woman. Ignoring their obvious curiosity, Starbuck shifted Tara in his arms as she played with a buckle on his flight jacket, sucking and gnawing on it like it was a candied treat. Babies were slobbery things. "I don't understand how . . ."

Honour put a hand on his arm, suddenly stopping in the corridor, looking up at him and nodding. It was as though she could read his mind and understood his concerns as she subtly guided him out of the main stream of traffic for some privacy. "Starbuck, I swear, I thought you were dead. That's what the Service told me when I enquired and finally applied for survivor benefits, just like you and I discussed before we were sealed."

"But I thought you were going to wait for me on Hoedus?" he replied as Tara began reaching for the pin on his collar. He intercepted, offering her his already slobbery buckle.

"If I'd done that, I'd be dead right now," she reasoned as she let out a long sigh. "After you launched, the Mercy Ship made ready to ship out. I had planned to stay and wait for word of your . . . return." She hesitated at her choice of words. She had known as well as he had that he might not be coming back from that mission.

"Go on," he said.

"New rumours started flying around that base faster than Viper pilots," she continued. She had a faraway look in her eyes, as if she were back on Hoedus. "We heard that the Cylon forces were closer than we thought, and that the base was in real danger. Besides that, we realized we could help others in the outlying planetoids. The High Priestess convinced me to leave with them, Starbuck. Please understand," she said plaintively, "I had to think of our baby."

"Obviously, you did the right thing, Honour, but . . . where did you go then? After all, the Mercy Ship was _destroyed_ . . ."

"I had to tell the High Priestess about my _condition_ as well as our sealing," she admitted, chewing lightly on her lower lip.

"Oh," he replied, wincing. Had this woman kept anything secret in her entire life? Was secrecy even in her nature? "How did she take the news?"

"About as well as she did six sectons prior to that when I admitted we'd made love in the Aerian Wellspring," she replied with a mischievous smile and a sparkle in her eyes, reminding him of the strong-willed and sassy beauty that he'd flirted with on Aeries, when his unit had been seconded for planetside duty, and had worked side by side with volunteers from the Kobollian Order to rebuild a city almost completely destroyed by seismic activity.

"You _told_ her that?" he asked, aghast. It was a wonder that he hadn't been struck down by lightning, instead of delayed on Alcor and declared missing in action.

"You don't _lie_ to the High Priestess of the Kobollian Order, Starbuck," she replied earnestly. "Besides, I couldn't take my final vows after . . ." She bowed her head as her face flushed prettily. "Well," she smiled fleetingly, "I wasn't certain that a life of chastity and contemplation was right for me after . . . our tryst."

"Ah." Otherwise, he held his tongue, knowing instinctively that he _shouldn't_ be proud of that. He was, alas, only a man.

"The Priestess was wise in the ways of wayward young women, Starbuck, mostly blaming my weakness on a certain wayward young _man_." She smiled briefly. "On Aeries, she suggested that I . . . _reflect_ on my actions, and decide whether or not I had purposely acted to delay my Confirmation." She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes again. "Penitent, I remained with the Order, continuing to do the work that I love, and then realized I was pregnant. I wasn't quite sure what I should do then. Of course, our paths crossing once again at that juncture made me realize I was being guided from the Heavens, so I sought you out. It was an answer to prayer, Starbuck."

His memory of their meeting on Hoedus was vivid. He'd just inadvertently overheard a conversation between the base commander and executive officer that implied they were about to embark on a one-way mission. He'd been somewhere between denial and the inexplicable belief that he could make some kind of difference when Honour had found him, dropping her news on him like a fifty megon load of cold, bone-chilling reality. A couple of centars later, they were standing in a dusty office before a public official with the necessary witnesses, his mind somewhat at ease that if he was going to die on that mission, that at least Honour and their child would be provided for with his survivor benefits. Upon launching, he hadn't been sure what was more terrifying, the battle before him or the situation behind him.

"So you left Hoedus on the Mercy Ship, but what then? And if you were getting survivor benefits, how come the Service never put the fact together that they were paying a wage and a benefit for the same very-much-alive warrior?" he asked, the baby beginning to fuss in his arms. Abruptly, Tara started to squawk, no longer distracted by shiny buckles or collar pins. It was about the time that non-baby people usually wanted to give the baby back, and not surprisingly he felt impelled in that general direction.

"Oh, she must be hungry," Honour said, immediately digging through her tote, still attached to Starbuck, and pulling out liquid primaries. "I can't believe she lasted this long after her nap. You must have captivated her, just like you did her mother." She smiled up at him, taking the baby and doing a near-impossible juggling act as she started to feed the tot. "Is the Life Station nearby?"

"Yeah," he said, taking her arm and steering her in that direction, "it's just around the next corner."

And as luck would have it, so were Cassiopeia and Athena.


	5. Chapter 5

Apollo stood staring at the hatch long after it had slid shut behind Starbuck and his instantaneous family. He shook his head in disbelief, finally turning to face his father.

"Starbuck, a father, and sealed to a devout Kobollian. I still can't believe it," he said.

"Nor can I," Adama said, quirking his eyebrows. "Although in some ways the former is much easier to imagine than the latter."

"That's true." Apollo smiled at his father.

"Perhaps I was too hard on him," Adama added regrettably. "He certainly made every reasonable effort to find out what happened to her."

"We were both hard on him."

"No," Adama shook his head. "You, at least, gave him the benefit of the doubt."

"You know, despite his reputation . . ."

Adama met his eyes, indicating he knew exactly what Apollo was talking about. As far as relationships went, the warrior had a tendency to keep things somewhat casual, usually dating more than one woman at a time, evidently so it was clear that no one liaison was exclusive. Adama had presumed it went back to his roots as an orphan, where the young man had been raised accustomed to relationships being temporary, and now he could see that Starbuck's experience with Honour would solidify those expectations.

"Despite that," Apollo continued, "when it counts, Starbuck doesn't leave people behind. Siress Belloby, Cadet Cree, myself more than once," Apollo replied. "I couldn't picture him knowingly abandoning his wife and child . . . even if in some ways he just wanted to know if he was still legally committed to someone."

"Legally? Not emotionally?"

Apollo shrugged. In truth, he wasn't certain about that, although he could once again be selling his friend short.

Adama sighed. "I'll have Colonel Tigh update the Fleet Records to reflect Starbuck and Honour's sealing."

"And I'll update his personnel file. What about quarters, Father?"

"As I'm sure I've heard Starbuck say before, Apollo, I think you're getting ahead of yourself. Neither Honour or Starbuck have indicated that she'll be moving to the _Galactica_. Give them some time to adjust and to figure out exactly how they're going to fit back into one another's life. After all, over a yahren has passed since they were last together."

Apollo nodded slowly. "Probably wise . . . but _not_ the way that Starbuck usually does things."

"Oh,_ I_ know."

xxxxx

Starbuck's first thought was that it was unnatural for Athena and Cassie to be anywhere together, unless Athena was at the Life Station as a patient, which admittedly raised an element of concern. But then why would they be standing in the corridor and not in the actual health centre if this visit was purely professional? Athena didn't look ill or injured in any obvious way, so he quickly ruled out _that_ possibility. His second thought was that the more time he wasted trying to figure out why the two women were talking face to face, the more likely he was to be exposed as a married man with a baby. It wasn't so much that he didn't want them to know exactly; it had more to do with wanting to be somewhere more _appropriate_ when they found out . . . like on a long-range patrol, for instance.

Yeah, the more he thought about it as he gazed into the wide and curious eyes of Cassie and the more suspicious ones of Athena, the more he realized that what had to happen here in a timely fashion was that Honour and Tara needed medical treatment. After all, his wife and daughter's health had nothing to do with his relationships with Cassie _or_ Athena. In fact, turning this into a discussion about_ him_ would be downright selfish, the way that he saw it.

"Cassie! Athena!" Starbuck exclaimed, trying to figure out what to do and say next. He needed a smokescreen, and Honour once again weaving on her feet couldn't have been better timed. He put a supportive arm around his wife, guiding her towards the Life Station entrance. "This is Honour, and baby Tara, from the Aerian Freighter."

"Starbuck?" Cassie said in surprise, staring at the unlikely threesome.

"What's . . .?" Athena began to ask.

Now, it's a well-known fact that women can't think straight while distracted by handsome, charming and fast-talking men. As near as Starbuck could figure, it was a sort of sensory overload that usually left the ladies befuddled just long enough for him to make good his escape. On record, it had proven to be successful about eighty-five per cent of the time, the ploy's success rate dropping when it had already been pulled on the subject, or in this case _subjects_ . . . uh . . . er . . .

Oh, what the frack, it was worth a shot.

"Lords, am I glad we ran into you, Cass," Starbuck pressed ahead, inserting just the right amount of relief into his tone. "Honour came close to fainting when she was talking to Commander Adama." By now he had made it past both the women and into the busy medical clinic, looking around for a free bio-stretcher. They were right on his tail, like a couple of Cylon Raiders trying to manoeuvre for a target lock. "He insisted that she come to the Life Station for an examination," he continued, keeping up a continuous stream of conversation to minimize the chance that Honour might announce their relationship at an inopportune time, but mostly while he was still there. "Is there some place she can at least lie down until someone can see her? I know you're busy, but . . ."

It took about a micron for Cassie to recognize there was actually some legitimacy in his words, as she looked at the ashen Honour. At this point, Athena hung back a little, also sensing there _might_ be some truth in what he had said. Truth was a powerful tool, the key being how much to impart at the right time.

"Right this way," Cassiopeia said, leading them to an empty bio-stretcher. "Honour, I'm Cassiopeia, a med tech," she explained as his wife sat down. "Has this ever happened before? Do you have any medical history that I should be aware of?"

"Well . . ."

Starbuck started walking backwards, planning his retreat. "Well, duty calls," he announced with his commlink in hand for proper cover. "I better report back to Commander Adama, on the double. Thanks, Cassie," he said as the med tech started to run a biomonitor over her patient. "Honour, you're in good hands," he reassured her, before turning to almost careen into Athena.

Starbuck instinctively gripped Athena by the arms to prevent himself from barrelling into her, dropping his commlink in the meantime. The commander's daughter startled, looking at him sceptically, probably detecting his eagerness to escape the Life Station and the overabundance of past and present romantic interests in one room. She bent down to pick it up, and then stared at it a moment, narrowing her eyes at him before handing it back. It was turned off, and now she knew it as well as he did. His mouth went dry. His heart sped up. She opened her mouth to say something.

"Athena," he hurriedly inserted, once again filling the precious and fragile silence as she paused, her eyes searching his, looking for answers . . . or weakness. "Uh . . ._bye_." He released her as he fled into the corridor.

"_Starbuck_," she muttered under her breath. "What are you up to now?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Well, well, well, if it isn't the return of Starbuck," Boomer announced as the lieutenant dropped into a seat across from him back in the Officer's Club. Boomer gestured at the barkeep. "The way the captain was looking at you, I figured you'd be either clapped in irons, or stripped and modulled by now."

"You don't know how close you are to the truth, buddy," Starbuck said as a large tankard of grog was placed in front of him.

"Come again?" Boomer asked, watching as his friend lifted the brew and drank deeply.

Starbuck closed his eyes, sighing as the liquid went down. While he had stood there in Adama's office, flanked by the perfect physical embodiments of the traditional Kobollian household, there had been a brief period when this whole "family" concept had seemed like a great idea. While he'd held Tara, he'd reminded himself that he'd always _liked_ kids, having spent more than his fair share of time around them growing up in orphanages. The older children were encouraged to fill the role of "big brother or sister", often helping to ease a difficult transition for those that had lost their families in the war. Heck, that time he'd entertained Boxey with Blue Squadron, drinking fruit juice and taking the kid's mind off his missing father with a few hands of Pyramid had come naturally to him. However, there was a vast difference between "Big Brother" and "Father" or "Husband", and his near confrontation with Cassie and Athena had once again filled his head with doubts and fears about his renewed relationship with Honour. Other than a couple centars of unplanned, unexpected passion stolen on Aeries, they really didn't have much in common, other than their daughter. Honour was a devout, selfless and generous woman who had dedicated her life to helping the downtrodden and unfortunate. On the other hand, he was a self-absorbed Viper jock who wanted to keep as much distance as possible between the downtrodden and himself, for fear that he might rejoin their ranks someday.

"I'm married."

Maybe he should have waited until Boomer had swallowed. As it was, in complete astonishment Boomer spewed a vaporous cascade of grog most of the way across the table, and was currently inhaling whatever hadn't been forced past his lips. Starbuck took a gulp of his drink as his friend stopped wheezing and gradually started breathing again. Meanwhile, the barkeep wiped up the table with a jaundiced eye on them both.

"_Married_? Of all the crazy . . . What the everliving _frack_ . . .?" Boomer gasped in a low voice, looking around as if he was betraying some kind of national secret.

Which, of course, meant Starbuck had to dredge up the past once again, bringing his friend up to speed on how he had ended up married, had been presumed dead, had deduced Honour was the one who was actually dead, and had put it all behind him, all before he had been assigned to the _Galactica_.

"You never said a word about any of this!" Boomer pointed out. "You! _You_!"

"You make it sound like I can't keep anything to myself," Starbuck said evenly, draining the rest of his tankard.

"When it comes to conquests, buddy, you're not exactly discrete," Boomer replied, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm tact, personified," Starbuck argued.

After all, he'd never said a wayward word about how he had inadvertently ended up dining with both Athena _and_ Cassiopeia on the _Rising Star_, securing two separate suites at great expense, and barely managing to avoid detection by the women until he was well away on his mission in Recon Viper One. All in all, the mission had been a welcome reprieve from his more demanding social exertions.

"Tell that to Cassiopeia and Athena," Boomer returned, rolling his eyes briefly before leaning forward to stare hard at the brash lieutenant. "I've heard about Hoedus, Starbuck." He paused a long moment, letting his grim features and the lull speak for him. Battles won were regaled in history; battles lost were mourned in silence. "You didn't think you were coming back, did you? That's the single biggest reason you sealed with that poor woman. You figured you were as good as dead, and would never have to live up to any of your responsibilities. You'd never have to be accountable for your actions." He took another loud gulp. "Like with every other woman you've dated; it's all about Starbuck."

Starbuck dropped his friend's eye, not liking what he saw there.

"No, you never had any intention of being around to raise that child . . . to hear her utter her first words . . . or take her first steps," Boomer continued, a passionate intensity infiltrating his tone. "I had _sisters_, Starbuck," he hissed. "I don't know whether I should be _completely_ disgusted with you, or somewhat appeased that you at the very least made it official, so they'd get your survivor benefits." He pounded the table once with his fist and their tankards vibrated. "And the reason you tried so hard to find out if she was dead was because you wanted to know for sure that you were off the hook! It wasn't out of any actual _feelings_ you had for this woman! It was just you being selfish!"

It was pretty damn close to the truth and in his heart Starbuck knew it. The version of the story he'd offered to Adama and Apollo had been the high gloss variation in which he'd come out the other end looking a little more remorseful and responsible. Yeah, back then he'd been so damn scared of fatherhood and marriage that he'd actually felt some relief when he'd "confirmed" Honour's death after Hoedus. Not surprisingly, Boomer had a way of cutting through the felgercarb and seeing the naked truth for what it was. In a way, it was almost cathartic laying it all on the table.

"I _know_, Boomer," Starbuck groaned, leaning forward, elbows on the table, dropping his head and raking both hands through his hair. "So maybe now you understand why I never brought it up. It wasn't exactly my best day."

"Young and stupid," Boomer said, bitterness dripping from his words. "Seven thousand yahrens of civilization and we're still screwing up on the basics . . ."

Through a few strands of hair, Starbuck looked over at him. Boomer's jaw was clenched into a scowl, his knuckles white as he gripped his mug. His eyes darted around the room, looking everywhere except at Starbuck. Now a guy who made a hobby out of reading people's actions might infer that he'd struck a chord . . . if the guy wasn't too absorbed in his own guilt and misery. "Are you trying to tell me . . ."

"We're talking about _you_, Starbuck. _Not me_," Boomer replied curtly.

"Yeah, well . . . I'd hate to confuse the issue," Starbuck returned, raising an eyebrow, wondering if maybe he wasn't the _only_ one playing his hand close to his chest. "Especially if it meant deflecting any of the condemnation rolling my way."

"You're not the first; you won't be the last," Boomer murmured after a pause, lifting his tankard. "Tell me . . . did you _miss_ the constant service reminders about contraception? Didn't they even _specifically_ mention your name in the header? 'Lieutenant Starbuck, pay attention, this means you!'" He sat back in his chair again, taking a drink, composing himself in the way that he knew best. "Let me guess . . . you had a date and missed that lecture . . ."

"No," Starbuck replied, shrugging off the steady stream of gibes. "However, I did miss the part about how the sacred Aerian spring water rendered protection useless."

Boomer snorted aloud, shaking his head slightly, a faint smile on his lips. He leaned forward further, his forearm resting on the table. "Starbuck, the sacred Aerian Wellspring was known _twelve worlds wide_ for its miraculous powers of _fertility_."

Starbuck winced. "Twelve worlds wide, huh? I didn't know that."

"Oh, I was willing to bet on _that_." Boomer glanced at his chrono before looking back at the lieutenant. "So what now? What are you going to do?"

"I wish I knew."

"You don't know, huh?" Boomer asked, pushing himself up from the table, the chair behind him loudly grinding across the floor, as he leaned on the table with both hands, dark eyes cutting into Starbuck. "Then I'll _tell_ you. You be a _man_, Starbuck. You rise to the occasion and_ be_ there for your wife and your child. _That's_ what you do."

Starbuck sighed heavily. Everybody was telling him what he should do, his conscience berating him just as loudly as his friends and superiors. Still, it just didn't _feel_ right. Shouldn't doing the right thing make a guy feel all . . . _virtuous_ or . . . something? Shouldn't the choice be obvious? The course of action inevitable? It was almost like he was . . . like he was waiting for something. An escape route? Or maybe a sign of some sort . . .

Then it came from above like a message from the Lords of Kobol, themselves.

"_Lieutenant Starbuck._ _Please report to the Life Station. Your wife is waiting for you. Lieutenant Starbuck. Please report to the Life Station. Your wife is waiting for you_."

The Lords were apparently hard up these days, doing voice-overs on the Unicom, while tormenting their errant son.


	7. Chapter 7

_Smack!_

The lingering burn on the left side of his face was worse than the pain of Athena's open palm when it had slapped him half the way into next secton. Lords of Kobol, that woman had a temper, but as he watched her storm away down the corridor, Starbuck couldn't help but admire her tenacity, not to mention the exaggerated swing of her hips as she endeavoured to put as much distance between them as possible in the next few milli-centons, lest she shoot him dead with his own laser.

Athena in a rage was a woman of few words, and right now, as far as he was concerned, the fewer the better. However, as the saying went, actions spoke louder than words. In her case, it was definitely true. He'd rounded a corner nearing the Life Station to come face to face with her, her eyes blazing with hostility and her hand poised for the strike.

It was one of those moments in life where a guy knew he'd better take what was coming to him, or else he'd perpetuate the inevitable punishment as well as that feeling of impending doom that had settled over him, as surely as the squadron of Cylon Raiders that had once swallowed up his lone Viper coming out of the Void near Kobol. Besides, if this was the extent of Athena's revenge, then it was one Hades of an improvement over that steam burn he'd received during a passionate moment with Cassie in a launch tube a few sectars ago. Then again, he'd never actually confirmed she'd been responsible for that manoeuvre, but his instincts were fairly accurate about such things, and the next time he'd see her at Carillon, she'd been surprisingly possessive when both she and Cassie had ended up in a felix fight over him in the chancery.

"Do you want to report her for striking a fellow officer, Lieutenant?" a voice asked from behind.

Starbuck winced, turning slowly to face Colonel Tigh. The executive officer looked far more amused than serious about the proposition. "No, sir. I, uh . . . pretty much had that one coming."

"Well, I'm glad to see that we're in agreement about that, Starbuck," Tigh replied, nodding at the warrior, before looking down at the data pad he was carrying. "For your information, I updated Fleet Records as per Commander Adama's request. Honour's marital status was changed from widowed to sealed, and I'll register you as the child's father with your approval." Tigh paused a moment, seemingly uncertain about how to continue.

"Sir?"

"There was actually no mention of your name in either of their vital statistics records, which is perplexing, don't you think?"

"She thought I was dead, Colonel," Starbuck explained. "Just like _I_ thought_ she_ was dead."

"Still, when the census was done, we did ask for names of deceased spouses and parents to try and compu-link familial ties throughout the Fleet. You'd be surprised how many surviving family members have been found that didn't realize each other were alive."

Starbuck considered that a moment. Why _wouldn't_ Honour insert his name as her deceased spouse or Tara's father? His supposed death didn't make him any less a husband or father, even if he had never fulfilled those roles. Once again it occurred to him how strange it was that the Service hadn't eventually picked up on the inconsistency when she had applied for his survivor benefits and then he had later resurfaced after his ordeal in the Willowwacks of Alcor. "What exactly are you getting at, Colonel?"

"Are you certain that the child is yours, Starbuck? There _are_ tests . . . "

His jaw dropped, hanging open for a long moment before Starbuck could respond. If anybody besides Tigh had said it, he would have flattened him. As it was, his body stiffened and his hand curled involuntarily into a fist. He took one aggressive step forward, before bringing himself under tight control. When he_ could_ get the words out, his tone was acerbic, expressing the outrage he was feeling about his superior officer suggesting such a thing about his _wife_. "Honour's not exactly the kind of woman that sleeps around, Colonel," he spat out between clenched teeth. "She was a Novice in the Kobollian Order, for Sagan's sake!"

"I didn't mean to imply . . ." Tigh quickly amended, retreating half a step, raising his hands before him, the data pad between them. "I do apologize, Lieutenant. I didn't intend to offend you or your wife . . . it's just . . ."

Starbuck's eyes narrowed. He couldn't_ believe_ this!

"There are a few inconsistencies that I happened to notice," Tigh pressed ahead," and I thought it might be worth mentioning. But. . ." He frowned as he studied the clearly angry lieutenant. "I can see now that I was out of line. I'll make the necessary amendment to the records. I'm sorry, Starbuck."

Starbuck nodded curtly at him before the colonel turned, heading back the way he had come. In a huff, the Colonial Warrior resumed his course towards the Life Station, mentally putting Tigh's accusations behind him and preparing himself for his next confrontation, this time with an embittered Cassiopeia. Lords, but it was going to be a long day.


	8. Chapter 8

_Smack!_

"You _Boray_! You . . .you _Porcine_! How could you _not_ tell me that you're _sealed_?" she shrieked hysterically, her hand fanning out to her side, obviously getting ready to slap him _again_. Her blue eyes glistened with emotion; her blonde hair was dishevelled, as if she had been tearing at it in her angst. Her entire body was taut with rage.

As big as a Battlestar was, it clearly wasn't big enough for Starbuck. He'd let her slap him once outside the Life Station, figuring he owed her that, but _twice _. . . that would just be stupid. Quickly, he intercepted the incoming strike, his face still stinging from her first . . . as well as Athena's . . . and Noday's . . .

"I'm sorry, _alright_?" Starbuck said, noticing they were attracting unwanted attention, some of it clearly enjoying his discomfiture. Probably, he could have sold ducats . . . "I was married for all of a centar before I shipped out on a one-way mission, and up until now, I thought she was dead! I didn't _know _I was still sealed!"

"_Liar_!" she tore into him, wrenching herself out of his grip, shoving him away with the flat of her hands against his chest. "You're a selfish, deceitful, mong-licking Barge rat! I should have known! Mother was right!" She stood stock-still for a moment, her form trembling with the intensity of emotion coursing through her, fists white-knuckled in front of her. Abruptly, she let out a shrill scream before pivoting sharply away on one foot, and stomping away from him, her hair swinging from side to side on her rigidly straight back.

"Mother?" Starbuck repeated in shock, watching her angry retreat.

"I guess what they say is true," Greenbean said, sidling up to him with a smirk. "Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor Hades a fury like a woman scorned."

"Tell me about it," Starbuck returned, his hand rubbing the burning flesh of his cheek. He'd been in triad games that were less brutal. "Mother?" he murmured again.

"Miriam's very close to her mother," Giles added, joining them, his gaze also following Miriam's retreat. "You're really sealed, huh Starbuck? I heard the news but I didn't believe it. You sly daggit . . ."

"I didn't _know_ . . .!" Starbuck again protested. Why wouldn't anyone believe him?

"Of course, you didn't!" Giles returned hastily, before adding more quietly. "I'd play it the same way if I were you, pal." He elbowed Greenbean. "As a measure of support for our good buddy, Starbuck, I think we should console each and every one of the ladies that he's casting aside . . . _presuming_ he's casting them aside. After all, being married is one thing, being monogamous is another, especially considering the circumstances. Eh, Bucko?"

"_Giles_ . . ." Starbuck growled in warning.

"Most of all we need to support Starbuck through what will surely be a difficult time of transition," Greenbean pontificated, nodding pointedly towards the Life Station entrance, and the two women ultimately awaiting him within its walls. "Personally, I believe in selfless acts of comfort, especially for a friend." He patted Starbuck on the shoulder, before turning back to the flight sergeant. "Tell you what, Giles, you take the blondes, I'll take the brunettes."

"Take?" Starbuck asked.

"He means _console_," Giles replied with a grin. "Right, Greenbean?"

"Right. That's what I mean."

"Do I have the misfortune of being the first . . . uh, _consolation _prize?" Cassiopeia's voice drifted over to them from the entrance of the Life Station. Arms crossed, eyes glaring, posture set in stone, she looked none too pleased.

"Uh . . ." coughed Greenbean, straightening his lanky form, taking a step back. "Well Cassiopeia, we . . ."

"We were just . . . well . . . you see, Starbuck actually . . ." stuttered Giles, stepping behind Starbuck.

"Greenbean, Giles, unless you're here to volunteer for our Fleetwide Prostate Focus Study, which I suspect might be very unpleasant for you both with our bio-scanners down, then you'd better move along. You're obstructing the Life Station entrance," the med tech continued, her tone cool, yet professional.

"_Prost_ . . ." There was a collective male whinge within the radius of earshot.

"See you, Starbuck," Greenbean said, beating a hasty retreat, almost tripping over Giles in his urgency.

"Bye!" Giles blurted, skittering away.

Starbuck was tempted to go with them, taking his prostate with him. He had narrowly avoided this confrontation once when he had first dropped Honour and Tara off, but now he supposed it was time to take his . . . er, lumps. Truthfully, he'd rather face an entire squadron of Cylon Raiders, single-handed.

Without his Viper.

Unarmed.

In the nude.

He sighed deeply, turning to finally face Cassiopeia.


	9. Chapter 9

Most women were _somewhat_ predictable, especially in matters of the heart, but Starbuck had to admit that he didn't quite know what to expect from Cassie, and that's what scared him the most. She was strong-willed and resilient, once surviving the horrors of the Ovions, and never looking back. Yet, for a vivacious and beautiful young woman, she had a surprising patience, wisdom and maturity, probably acquired through her socialator experience. While Athena hadn't spoken to him for a secton when she'd heard about the three Tennas on Arcta, Cassie had only smiled knowingly, seemingly expecting it of him. Yet, after the exchange only a moment ago with Greenbean and Giles, it reminded him that with a few carefully chosen words, she could still send brave Colonial Warriors fleeing for safety. Which side of her was he in store for now?

"Cassie . . ." he started reluctantly, looking up and down the corridor, seeing that the spectators who had watched his set-to with Miriam were by and large dispersing. "I . . ."

"Your wife is ready, Starbuck," Cassiopeia replied evenly, glancing down at her data pad. As always, she looked every bit the professional in her med tech uniform. "Her blood sugar was low, which accounts for her light-headedness. Thankfully there doesn't seem to be any underlying medical etiology. Of course, I understand that conditions on the Aerian Freighter aren't very good, and that nutritious primaries aren't exactly in abundance, especially after the Agro Ships were destroyed."

He paused an excruciating moment, waiting . . . waiting . . . probably for a slap up the side of his head that would leave him needing a biomedical scan at the very least. It didn't come. Instead, she looked back down at her data pad, making some kind of entry, her lustrous blonde hair falling forward, hiding her face from his scrutiny.

After all his agonizing, it was a little surreal.

No recriminations. No accusations. No hysterics. Not even a wry comment about calling a fire fighter for his already flaming face. Only a calm, professional demeanour as he stood there mouth agape and speechless, especially after his confrontations with Athena, Noday and Miriam.

So why did he feel even _worse_ than he would have if she had torn a strip off of him? More than any other woman he had ever known, Cassie had a way of keeping him slightly off balance. She could slip under carefully erected emotional shields that he had spent a lifetime perfecting. Inexplicably, his chest ached and he felt a little sick as he watched her glistening eyes meet his ever so briefly, before dropping to examine her data pad once again. Bit by bit, his selfish defences crumbled, until he was left vulnerable, exposed to the munificence of her silent endurance.

"Cass . . ." he breathed, feeling like bilge louse on agar.

"It's amazing Honour's baby is so healthy, considering," Cassie inserted, her tone rising ever so slightly before she brought her voice under rigid control once again. "I can only imagine Honour would do just about anything to keep little Tara well fed and sheltered, like every other underprivileged mother struggling to raise a family, especially on her own." She paused a long moment, and the sudden silence was obtrusive.

"I, uh . . ."

Cassie looked up at him briefly. "I was on a ship like that once. I remember the mothers crying for their children . . . desperate people . . ." She shivered involuntarily. "Remember?"

"I remember," he replied, still astounded that instead of lambasting him, she had instead found a common bond and empathy with Honour. Time after time, this woman always managed to surprise him. He took a step forward, wincing when she reacted by hastily retreating a pace. "Cassie, I'm _sorry_."

"I know you are, Starbuck," she replied, pushing back a lock of her hair, regaining her composure. "Honour explained about your sealing. She's very . . . _forthcoming_ . . . to the point of indiscretion, actually." She smiled thinly. "I think I know you well enough to understand what happened."

He wondered if she realized how trapped he had felt, that his marriage was more a gesture of responsibility in what he considered his last centars, something he felt forced into, rather than an actual act of love. Should he tell her? Did it even _matter_ at _this _point?

"I think I understand her too," Cassie said quietly. "You might have met your match."

It was an odd thing to say. He shook his head in bemusement, afraid to ask.

She sighed, seeming suddenly weary. "We gave them something to eat, found both her and the baby some fresh clothes, and let Honour have her first turbo wash in sectars. She says she's feeling much better," Cassie rambled, standing aside and motioning for him to precede her. "She's ready to be discharged."

"Thank you," he said humbly, not knowing what else to say.

"I'd do the same for anyone else," she replied with a delicate shrug.

"I know you would," he replied, awed by her compassion and understanding, feeling about two centimetrons tall next to her. "I really am sorry, Cass."

"Go, Starbuck," she replied with a quaver in her voice. She raised her hand, pointing within the health unit. "Your wife and daughter are waiting for you."


	10. Chapter 10

Starbuck sucked in a ragged breath, pausing with his hand on the door to the private cubicle that his wife and daughter were occupying in the Life Station, garnering both his resolve and his wits before he could get up the courage to enter. Cassie's handling of the whole scene was resonating with him, making him reflect all too late that he hadn't realized what he had with her until it was as good as gone.

It had been a day of self-discovery to put it mildly, and only half way through it he was wondering how a guy could go from hero to heel in the space of a couple centars. Then again, it wasn't his _professional_ conduct that anyone was questioning. It was his moral code, or lack thereof.

It was easy to blame it all on circumstances; Hades Hole, he'd been doing _that_ all his life. Things just _happened_ to him, having nothing at all to do with his behaviour, or so he'd believed up until now. After all, there were two kinds of luck in life, both good and bad. For the most part at some point the Goddess Fortuna would inevitably come to his rescue after rubbing his nose in a set of disagreeable circumstances for her own personal amusement. Not that he'd ever learned anything from that or really cared, as long as it worked out in the end.

No, Starbuck had never bought into that masochistic Kobollian personal edict of guilt and recrimination, despite having it force fed to him on a shovel for most of his young life. Going through life wallowing in regret was no way to live. For as long as he could remember, his credo had been that you only went around once, so you might as well enjoy it. But he'd never expected it to be at someone _else's_ expense, especially someone he cared about.

Maybe even loved . . .

He held his breath for a long moment, struggling against the wave of emotion crashing down upon him. His eyes prickled threateningly and he swallowed down the lump that was trying to choke him, while an image of Cassie fighting back tears burned itself into his consciousness. Oh, it was a fine time for epiphanies, too little too late!

"Starbuck? Is that you?"

It occurred to him suddenly that he was standing there with the door cracked part way open, his feet frozen to the spot. Pushing open a door . . . why was it so difficult? _Because you're closing another one, Idiot! That's why!_

"Starbuck?" Honour called again, this time pulling the door open, finishing what he couldn't.

Gone were the stinking rags and unkempt hair, leaving behind a breath-taking woman. She was clothed in a traditional robe, and her shining tawny hair hung loosely on her shoulders. The illuminators above highlighted subtle tints of red and gold in her silken lengths that he'd forgotten about until now. There was colour back in her cheeks, and her wide blue eyes seemed to smile with pleasure as she studied him. Then she frowned ever so slightly, reaching forward and taking his hand, much as she would a child, drawing him inside.

The door clicked shut behind him as his heart pounded in his ears.

"Are you alright?" she asked in a small, uncertain voice, pausing only a moment to check on Tara who was playing with some toys on the floor.

"_Me_?" he asked. The question seemed so out of place, considering the circumstances. "What makes you think I . . ."

"You look so . . . _lost_," she replied, reaching slowly upward and stroking his face with her fingertips, her touch feather-soft. "Starbuck, I don't remember you ever being anything less than . . . _over_confident. It was as though you'd never doubted a single thing you'd ever done in your entire life." She smiled gently at him. "How I envied you that."

"You sure that was confidence?" he asked her, suspecting strongly now that it had more to do with ignorance and training.

"I was then," she replied, sighing, dropping her hand, and pushing her long, wavy hair back from her face. "I suppose we have a lot of catching up to do."

"I guess so."

"Starbuck," she said, beginning tentatively, "all this time you thought I was dead . . . you probably have a full life . . . a girlfriend . . . and here I was so excited that we'd found you, I never even thought to ask. I'm so sorry, Starbuck."

He bit his lip. After all she'd been through, she was apologizing to _him_?

"Do you want to have the test done?" Honour blurted out, raising a hand to her mouth as she waited for his answer.

"T-test?" he echoed in shock. "What are you . . .?"

"There's a test that will prove you're Tara's father; Cassiopeia mentioned it, as did several others," she replied, her face flushing with embarrassment.

"Cassie suggested . . .?" Why would Cassie suggest it to Honour and not him?

"She said it would be more of a formality for their records, but that she'd need your consent, as well." Honour nodded, frowning thoughtfully. "I'm glad the other med tech took over our care. Poor Tara just cried and cried when Cassiopeia was examining her . . . I don't think she likes children very much."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Anyhow, it made me realize that you must be wondering . . . and I don't want you doubting me, or thinking that I'm using you . . ." Honour's voice faltered, thickening with emotion as she turned away from him, bowing her head, her arms wrapping around her middle.

"Using me?" he replied, cringing that he'd brought another woman to tears so soon. "I never thought . . ."

"Others obviously do. You were the only one, Starbuck . . ." she continued throatily. "My first, my last . . . but there's no way that _you_ could know that . . . and if you want to make sure . . . then I . . . I think we should do the test . . . if you really want to, that is." Her shoulders shook slightly, and her voice was now thick with tears, barely coherent. "I want your mind at ease. I know you don't have . . ." She sniffed loudly, her hand surreptitiously wiping away tears that she didn't want him to see. "You don't have much faith in women . . ."

"Is that . . . is that really what you think?" he said hoarsely, her words cutting him more deeply than anything that Cassie had said a few moments before. Truthfully, even when Tigh had raised the matter of Tara's paternity, it hadn't occurred to him that Honour would be less than honest about any of this. There were only a few people in his life that he'd believed were morally beyond deceit, and at this moment, he added her to his mental list. Obviously, having her fidelity and integrity questioned by Life Station staff as well as by her own husband was humiliating to her in the extreme. It was adding insult to injury, and it made him feel even worse when he thought about Cassie's apparent part in it. However, to ease his presumably suspicious mind and erase any future scepticism on his part, Honour would not only go through with it, but she'd actually suggested it.

"We're mostly playthings, aren't we, Starbuck?" she said matter-of-factly. "For a little while we get to bask in the glow of your light." She drew a deep breath, her voice getting back some semblance of control, before she straightened her back. "You have something so irresistible . . . so addictive. You have the ability to make people _happy_ just being around them, both men _and_ women. Always the centre of attention, radiating joy and laughter, that's how I remember you. It's a rare gift, Starbuck." She hesitated a moment, squatting down to take something from Tara's hand, before replacing it with a toy when the child squawked in protest. "I remember . . . I never felt as _alive_ as I did when I was with you." She looked up at him briefly, smiling as she stood again. "And when you turned the power of that magnetism on me . . . I was lost. And I treasured every moment of it, Starbuck. I really did."

"What do you want from me, Honour?" he asked, his voice raw. In a jumble of confused emotions, it just came out that way.

"Whatever you're willing to give. I just want you to know your daughter, Starbuck. She's such a blessing in my life," she replied, again looking down at Tara. "But, I don't want to impose . . ."

"_Impose_?" he replied, not able to conceive that she'd think of it that way. "Honour, you're my family! My _only_ family!"

She looked back up at him, hope once again lighting her mien. "You mean that after the test, we might possibly . . .?"

He shook his head, stepping forward and taking her hand. "There isn't going to_ be_ any test, Honour. I never doubted for a centon that Tara was mine. If you're agreeable to it, I want you both to move to the _Galactica_, just as soon as we can get you quarters. . ." It was the least that he could do and it was way overdue.

She caught her breath, looking at him wide-eyed. "But . . ."

"At first, you and Tara can live separate from me while we all get to know each other once again." He noticed she seemed to relax at that. He wasn't the Boray that everyone took him for. "Then maybe someday—when we're ready—we can move into family quarters."

"Really?" Honour squealed, throwing herself into his arms, embracing him. "Oh, Starbuck!"

He held onto her tightly, soaking up the warmth of her happiness for a selfish moment, waiting for it to penetrate the inexplicable numbness that had swept over him. He tried to rationalize that he was married to a beautiful, selfless woman who just happened to be the mother of his child. He could do this. He could be a husband and father. After all, it came naturally to most of the male population, why not him? Centons later, Honour was plunking Tara back into his arms, and collecting her pack of belongings.

"Where are we going now?" she asked, a new spring in her step as she did a final check to make sure she had her worldly goods.

"We'll see if there are any quarters available," he replied, opening the door easily this time, while he balanced his daughter in his arms. He stood aside, letting Honour pass. "Don't get your hopes up too high, though. This is a military vessel, and civilian billets are as tough to get as Cylon mercy. Even the best of the civilian ships have waitlists. You might need to share with someone for a while."

"We were sharing with a hundred on our deck on the Aerian Freighter, a pile of girders our only privacy," she replied, leading him across the Life Station. "Anything here will be an improvement. Hopefully, I can make some kind of contribution, maybe help other single mothers . . ."

Not surprisingly, she paused in her thoughts of future humanitarianism to graciously thank the health unit staff for their care and consideration. Starbuck looked around for Cassie, but it seemed she had made herself scarce. He supposed he couldn't really blame her.

Then, as if to disprove his thoughts, Cassiopeia appeared from another cubicle, hesitating as she spied the small family getting ready to leave. She actually stumbled, her face suddenly stricken at the sight of him with Honour and Tara. Then she forced herself forward, crossing the short distance between them, her professional demeanour back in place.

"Take good care, Honour," she said solemnly, before smiling down at Tara in her father's arms. "That goes double for you, Sweetness. I can see you already have your father wrapped around your little finger, and I don't think you'll have any trouble keeping him that way."

"True," Starbuck replied, noticing Cassie wouldn't meet his eye.

Abruptly, Tara surged forward in Starbuck's arms, arms outstretched, reaching for Cassie, as she burbled happily. He tightened his grip on the tot, afraid he was going to drop her. Lords, but she moved fast!

"Thank you, Cassiopeia," Honour said with a small smile, inserting herself between them, before turning the warmth of her smile towards the rest of the staff. "Bless you all for the work you do here."

"We're glad we could help," Cassie replied with a nod. "Take care of them, Starbuck."

"I will," he replied, feeling Honour tug him forward, eager to begin her new lease on life.

He made it to the threshold, and then paused. How many times had he heard you should never look back? Then again, how many times had he actually listened to such superstition, considering it nonsense? Watching his wife's slender form move slowly down the corridor, he risked it, one small peek back over his shoulder.

Cassie's eyes met his and she smiled at him, her eyes glimmering sadly. Tenderly, she kissed her fingertips, blowing the kiss his way. The gesture was so subtle and it happened so quickly, he wondered if he had imagined it. Then she bowed her head and turned away.

"Starbuck?" Honour called back to him.

"Coming."


	11. Chapter 11

"Replenishing the seed for our lone Agro Ship, as well as commencing force growing still doesn't erase the fact that _two_ of our Agro Ships were destroyed, along with many highly skilled, and need I say, _irreplaceable_ crew," Sire Anton reminded the assembled Council members. "Word has leaked out among the people. As much as those in this council chamber hate to acknowledge that there are indeed 'have' and 'have-not' ships in the Fleet, there is a sense of unease rising among our, shall we say, _lower_ class populace, which I have not seen the like of since the Destruction."

"Very true, Sire Anton," Siress Tinia agreed, rising from her seat to secure the floor. "Fellow Council Members, only this morning it was reported that a woman on the Mastodon Freighter took not only her own life, but that of her infant child, leaving behind a handwritten note that spoke in bitter detail of her despondency."

"She murdered her own child?" Adama asked aghast, unable to comprehend a mother doing such a thing. A murmur ran through the rest of the assembled council members.

"Yes, Adama. Sadly, she seemed to think it was an act of compassion, ending her daughter's life, rather than continuing to exist in squalid conditions that she described as not fit for raising a God-fearing child in the Kobollian tradition." Tinia paused in the stunned silence. "Family Services is, of course, looking into to the situation, as is Colonial Security."

Adama closed his eyes, letting out a disheartened sigh. As much as they tried to guarantee that all their people had the basic necessities of food, medicine, and shelter, some of the passenger ships seemed to have on-going problems with fair distribution of food and other supplies, resulting in people going without. The reality was that simply because someone was in a position of power didn't necessarily mean that they would use it magnanimously. In contrast, rumour had it that, in some cases, isolated ship owners or captains were running their vessels like little fiefdoms, treating their passengers like vassals, with all the respect that implied. In these cases, supplies and food were commodities distributed or withheld based upon labour performed or services rendered. However, with little in the way of an alternative living arrangement, most living in those situations kept silent, rather than face potential consequences from their "overlords".

"Has Social Protection reviewed the distribution process on the Mastodon Freighter?" Sire Geller asked.

"According to my records, yes," Tinia replied, taking her seat. "They found nothing amiss, although basic hygienic facilities were recorded as inadequate for the population, which is no surprise. Captain . . ." Tinia glanced down at a data pad for a reference. "Captain Skiron is proceeding on schedule with his plan for renovations and upgrades to the ship's plumbing and recycling equipment, which he submitted during the review. Sadly, the Foundry ship is barely keeping up with the fabrication and delivery of needed materials, even when resources are available. However, other than this single incident, there have been no legitimate complaints of consequence."

"And this woman who committed suicide," Anton paused, "what was her name?"

"Hope, Sire. From . . . Taura."

"Hope," Adama repeated sadly, the irony heart-breaking.

"Did Hope have any history of mental illness of which we're aware?" Anton asked.

"None, although clearly she wasn't in her right mind this morning," Tinia replied.

"But is this just an isolated but tragic incident, or is it indicative of an insidious problem on the Mastodon Freighter, and possibly other ships in the Fleet?" Adama asked. "Also this morning another young woman and her child appeared in my office, looking half-starved and filthy. They were from the Aerian Freighter."

"The Aerian Freighter," Tinia repeated, looking down at her data tablet. "That's unconventional. Was she there to issue a complaint, Commander Adama?"

"No, as it turned out we were actually able to reunite her with her husband, in fact, one of my warriors. Due to an as yet unclear miscommunication at Hoedus, they'd believed each other to be dead."

"Hoedus?" Anton first shook his head, and then slowly nodded. "Fortunate for her, indeed. How refreshing to hear a story of happiness, instead of loss." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "How very refreshing."

"Yes," Adama agreed aloud, privately thinking it was more a story of abject shock on the part of Starbuck, rather than happiness.

"Adama, would this woman consent to speak with Family Services about conditions on the Aerian Freighter, I wonder?" Tinia asked. "It would be advantageous to get the perspective of someone who is moving off ship, presuming that's the next step?"

"That she transfer off ship? I should think that would be next, but possibly not right away, depending on the availability of quarters. We could certainly ask her if she'd agree to an interview. I had the distinct impression that she would help in any way she could, especially if it could be a benefit to others."

"Excellent. What is her name?" asked Tinia, waiting to make an entry on her pad.

"Honour."

"And pray tell, Adama, who is the lucky warrior?" Anton asked.

"Lieutenant Starbuck," Adama replied.

"Ah, one of our brave young men from the Nova of Madagon mission. How delightful," replied the aged councillor with a warm smile. "An honest to goodness hero finding his wife and child, believed long dead. Just the kind of feel-good story our people need to hear on the tail of another Cylon attack. I'll have my aide contact the Comp-Tel Ship to organize an interview, if you'll inform the good lieutenant and his wife."

"An inspired idea, Anton. Accentuate the positive while we further investigate the conditions on some questionable ships. You have my support," Geller said.

"It's a public relations dream," Sire Montrose said contentedly. "You have mine as well."

"And mine," Tinia agreed. "Meanwhile, Adama, perhaps you can step in and help expedite some quarters for Honour on the _Galactica_. It would help two-fold with her being completely honest with Family Services, and would set the stage nicely for the image of the happily reunited traditional Colonial family."

"Of course."

As good as the idea seemed in theory, somehow Adama couldn't help but wonder how it would be affected by the fact that the "traditional" family in question was Starbuck's. The boy had a way of complicating the straightforward. Experience was telling him that he needed reinforcements that he could count on to insert his unpredictable officer into this Council weaved IFB special feature, lest it turn from a heartfelt and inspiring family segment into a slightly debauched comedy.


	12. Chapter 12

"Nothing?"

"Nothing. At least nothing appropriate for family quarters," Corporal Faxon replied stone-faced, glancing at his screen once again. "Sorry, Lieutenant."

He didn't _sound_ that sorry.

"Nothing _appropriate_?" Starbuck echoed. "Then you have _something_?" He leaned forward over the desk, his hands resting on it. "They don't need much, Corporal. _Anything_ would be an improvement over the sorry excuse for a passenger barge they've been living on."

From behind the barrier of his desk in the austere cubicle, Faxon glanced over at Honour, who was swaying gently on her feet, rocking Tara in her arms. Her pretty face was pinched with concern, her eyes close to welling over. A man would either have to be made of stone or have the regulations manual rammed up his astrum to be immune to their tragic plight.

"Please don't make us go back there . . ." Honour whispered quietly. "_Please_ . . ."

The corporal's lips pressed together in a thin line, his gaze dropping back to his computer screen.

"C'mon, Faxon," Starbuck pressed, "she doesn't mind sharing, and there _are_ only two of them. On a base ship this big there must be _some_ place . . ."

"We don't need much," Honour nodded hopefully.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Faxon replied, this time avoiding looking at Honour as he raised a hand behind his head to rub his neck. "There's _already_ a waitlist. I can add them to it, but right now there's nothing available. Service personnel take priority over civilians, you know that. I'd like to help you out, but I can't. It wouldn't be . . . ethical."

"I'm not trying to get you to compromise your integrity, Faxon," Starbuck assured him, straightening up again. "I'm just saying that there must be _some_ place that we can convert into temporary quarters that nobody else was earmarked for already. Someplace no one else wants. No harm, no foul."

Faxon frowned at him, crossing his burly arms over his thick chest. "_Lieutenant_ . . ."

"Just a place to sleep for now; that's all they need," Starbuck continued, raising his hands innocently to meliorate the situation. "I bet you know the status of every compartment, storage locker and cubicle on the _Galactica _off by heart, Faxon. After all, you were the guy responsible for finding quarters for _how_ many new recruits and refugees when we started bringing them aboard faster than we knew what to do with them. People are still talking about how you're one of the few guys who knows his job well enough to turn complete chaos into order, armed with nothing but a holoptic memory and a keyboard."

"I wasn't the _only_ one . . ." Faxon began modestly, his fleshy cheeks flushing slightly. "Corporal Komma . . ."

"But you were the one with the _ideas_," Starbuck enthused. "I'll never forget Commander Adama telling me over dinner one night how satisfying it was to know that there were warriors like you, Faxon, that weren't limited or inhibited by the rigid constraints of doing things the traditional way. Yeah, I still remember him saying to me, 'Starbuck, sometimes results are more important than procedure, especially when _real_ people are involved'." He paused in his story to briefly point a finger at the non-commissioned officer. "You're an ideas man, Faxon. That's what the Service needs more of."

Faxon's jaw dropped. "Commander Adama said _that_ about _me_?"

"Sure he did. People like you and him realize that in times like these, we need to come up with _new_ ways of doing things. After surviving the destruction of our civilization, you know as well as I do that what seems impossible is probably something that just hasn't been thought through well enough. It's a new world, and we need to find new ways. And there's _always_ a solution, we just have to figure it out. Right?"

Faxon nodded grudgingly. Starbuck had his attention, but he needed more than that. He needed "buy in".

"Now, don't get me wrong. I don't want you to break any rules or do anything I wouldn't do myself to help a lady and child in need. Like you, Faxon, I took an oath to serve the Colonial Nation, to protect her women and her children," Starbuck said, turning to look at Honour and Tara. The image of mother and child pulled on his heartstrings insistently, inspiring him with an irresistible desire to protect his family. He needed Faxon to understand that . . . he needed Faxon to _feel_ an empathy with them. Starbuck held out a hand, and Honour stepped forward to take it. He pulled her in close, putting an arm around them both. "I just found out that the wife I thought was dead is actually alive, Corporal. I can't begin to describe what that's like. But she came to me half-starved, filthy and in rags."

Faxon nodded slowly, absorbed in the oratory.

"And this beautiful little girl is my daughter, Corporal. Like you, I swore an oath that I'd provide a nurturing environment in which to raise all Colonial children." Starbuck snorted in disgust. "_Nuturing._ Have you heard about conditions on the Aerian Freighter, Corporal? It has one of the densest populations in the Fleet with a completely inadequate infrastructure. There's a small commissary for_ thousands_ of refugees. No privacy. No place for a child to play. And the turbo flushes. . ." He saw Faxon grimace. "Yeah. They've had _three_ outbreaks requiring quarantine in the last two sectars." Starbuck shook his head in dismay, remembering how Honour and Tara had looked when he had first seen them in the commander's office. "I can't in all good conscience take them back there, Corporal. Sagan's sake, help me out here. I'll do anything you ask. Anything at all."

Faxon sighed, looked at him contemplatively for a long moment. Then his fingers crept forward finding his keyboard. The soft tapping was a glorious sound, signifying hope. "Anything, huh?"

"Whatever you ask. Say the word," Starbuck repeated, realizing he meant it. What had begun as a classic attempt to get his own way had concluded in a sincere plea for help, one warrior to another. Faxon wasn't a pilot, but all Colonial Warriors lived by an unspoken code upholding honour, allegiance and brotherhood. Sometimes they just had to get past several pages of the regulation manual to remember it.

"I meant that you'll be satisfied with anything, not that I _want_ something," Faxon clarified, eyes locked on the screen. "We take care of our own, Lieutenant."

"Bless you," Honour breathed in relief.

"Don't get your hopes up, there's not much . . ." Faxon replied.

"A nook, a cranny, even an out of service turbo lift, _anything_ . . ." Starbuck coaxed him, sucking in a breath, holding it hopefully.

Faxon chuckled, his concentration now rapt on the field on his screen.

Starbuck glanced down at Honour who was looking up at him almost reverently. Her emotions had travelled the spectrum of elation to devastation from arrival to when Faxon had first told them he had nothing. She clearly hadn't counted on Starbuck's persuasive tactics followed by his even more convincing earnestness. Evidently, there was nothing he wouldn't do if it would get his wife and child decent accommodations. Now . . . onto the logistical side of things, whose bunk could he steal? He smiled as an image of Flight Sergeant Ortega abruptly came to mind.

_Beep!_

The noise had come from Faxon's computer, indicating an in-coming message.

"Just a centon, Lieutenant," he said, his concentration never waning from his screen.

Starbuck sighed, raking a hand through his hair anxiously. Situations like this often counted on maintaining the momentum. He was so close.

"What's this?" Faxon said aloud, glancing up at them before looking back down at his screen. He raised his eyebrows, then he half-smiled, sniffing in apparent amusement. "Looks like this is your lucky day, Lieutenant."

"It _is_?" Starbuck asked, confused. Not so far, it hadn't been. Not by a long shot.

Faxon smiled, leaning forward almost conspiratorially. "I guess we have a place for your wife, after all."


	13. Chapter 13

"Ohhh!" Apollo groaned aloud, shaking his head in denial that his father could _ever_ ask something like this of him. "Starbuck and Honour as the joyously reunited couple? Father, you know the circumstances! This isn't exactly the inspirational happily-ever-after story for the _IFB_ that the Council is looking for!" He blew out a short, forceful breath. "This is _Starbuck_!"

Seated on the edge of his desk, his arms crossed, Adama nodded in apparent agreement. "That's why I need your help, Apollo. Starbuck listens to you. He heeds your counsel."

"_Starbuck_?" Apollo snorted in disbelief. Was he _actually_ hearing this? "Starbuck doesn't heed anybody's counsel, Father, _especially_ when it comes to women. He does whatever seems right at the time, for what he thinks is the right reason." He shook his head again, and then looked up at the ceiling." I can't believe that the Council talked you into this."

"Apollo, early in the cycle, a woman on the Mastodon Freighter took her own life." He handed Apollo his data pad. "And, Lords help us, that of her child. A girl. Scarcely a yahren old. She left a note speaking of her despondency."

"Dear Lord," Apollo murmured, eyes glued to the report, trying to imagine how sick . . . how _desperate_ someone had to be to do something like that to their own child. The woman's note was rambling; barely coherent, sure proof of a mind falling to bits. He couldn't comprehend the circumstances that would have to arise for him to even fathom doing harm to Boxey.

"Yes, I felt the same way, son," Adama said quietly, the sorrow on his features bespeaking a father's understanding. "Sire Anton is correct; we need _some_ way of raising the spirits of our people . . . of giving them hope." He stood, gesticulating with one hand. "These little _vignettes_ into the lives of real people might be just what we need, especially in light of the destruction of two of our Agro Ships. If they're successful, Inter Fleet Broadcasting might expand the idea to focus on some of our warriors exclusively . . ."

"But _Starbuck_?" Apollo repeated. "Isn't there somebody else?

"Apollo, I can't just pull happy reunion stories out of my dress cape!" Adama replied in exasperation.

Apollo smiled at the absurdity of the commander's words, a vision of Adama as a stage prestidigitator floating past his mind's eye. "Alright. I understand. So . . . you want me to make sure that Starbuck doesn't do anything . . . _untoward_."

"After Serenity, _foolish_ is the word that came to mind, actually," Adama replied with a smile. "I'm hoping that between you and Honour, you can keep him in line. It's a five centon segment on the _Primary Report_. That's all."

Apollo sighed, nodding. "I'll do my best."

"That's all I ask," Adama said, briefly gripping Apollo's arm, before walking him to the threshold. "He's in the stateroom."

xxxxx

"Dear _Lord_ . . ." she murmured demurely.

"Holy _frack_!" he exclaimed simultaneously.

Dumbfounded, Starbuck and Honour stood on the threshold of the suite he'd been given the entry code for, gasping in astonishment at the amenities within. It wasn't just any old officer's quarters; it was an entire suite of rooms, even bigger than the commander's own quarters!

Honour's mouth was hanging open in complete shock as she looked around at the opulence that Starbuck would lay odds she'd never seen the likes of before, even in pictures. The décor was bordering on ostentatious, the one element missing being a fat, unctuous bureautician to wallow in the splendour of the rich fabrics and colours, accented by fine Aquarian glassworks and Cancerian figurines, both marble and bronze.

What the frack was it doing on a Battlestar?

"There must be some mistake," Honour said hesitantly, her fingers stroking the kerchief covering her hair. "This is . . ."

"So lock the hatch and don't tell anyone," Starbuck returned, striding forward into the room and turning around in a quick circle, his daughter in his arms. Tara giggled gleefully with the motion, and Starbuck treated her to another spin, addicted to the wide, mostly toothless smile of the tot and her infectious merriment. He held her in front of him, tossing her lightly into the air, listening to Honour's gasp of warning and Tara's squeal of delight. He laughed out loud. "You like that, huh, Tara? You must be a thrill seeker like your old man."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Honour asked, her smile one of pleasure as she finally ventured into the suite, her pack still slung over her shoulder. "Seriously, what is this place? We could house three or four families in here!"

"A well-kept secret, that's what it is. After all, _I _didn't know it was here," Starbuck replied, putting Tara down on an ornate carpet. She immediately grabbed a tassel and popped it into her mouth, cooing with pleasure as she masticated around the fibrous material.

"Tara!" Honour said sharply, swiftly moving to intervene. She picked up the little girl, substituting a rag for the soggy tassel. "Be warned, Starbuck, she puts everything in her mouth that isn't battened down."

"Reminds me of one or two warriors I know," he replied.

Honour giggled, smiling at him. "You always could make me laugh."

"It's a gift. Especially, when my superiors expect me to do manual labour," he replied, thinking back to their shared time together on Aries. While helping to rebuild a city devastated by seismic activity was apparently "character building", according to his unit's commanding officer, it hadn't necessarily been Starbuck's forte. Actually, after a solid sectar he'd realized that he was much better at blowing things up than he was at rebuilding them. By and large, his fellow warriors agreed with him. Still, blowing things up was rewarding unto itself, especially if it was Cylon in nature. It also took a lot less time. _Face it, Bucko, you're an immediate gratification kind of guy._

"I don't know how you did it . . ." she said softly, putting Tara down, turning back towards him.

Starbuck looked over, detecting something amiss in her tone of voice. Honour licked parted lips, swallowing almost convulsively before she dropped her bag to the floor with a thud, never taking her eyes off him. She took a first tentative step towards him. Then she took another.

"I . . . uh . . ." he stammered. Somehow, he hadn't expected this.

Time seemed miraculously suspended while she drifted across the room towards him, the alluring sway of her hips not hidden by her shapeless robes. She had the sensual grace of a dancer, captivating him with her virtuous beauty, while mesmerizing him with the smouldering lure in her deep blue eyes. Idly, she tossed aside the kerchief covering her head, lifting up her thick, tawny mane with both hands, and finger-combing the lustrous lengths, before letting it cascade in waves across her shoulders. Then she stopped in front of him, a feral smile on her enticing lips.

In the space of a few heartbeats she had changed from Kobollian Novice to erotic siren; he was taken completely off-guard. Honour plucked at his tunic where it was tucked into his pants, lowering her sultry gaze, a mix of coquettish innocence and wanton declaration. Her sweet perfume intoxicated his senses, making the rest of the world simply disappear around them. She put him in mind of a jungle felix, wild and sensual. Predatory. His mouth was suddenly dry.

His heart pounded in his chest. Every nerve ending tingled. He wanted to consume her, yet he didn't dare move for fear it was all a dream.

"Hold me," she whispered huskily, tilting her face upward, her seductive gaze promising him so much more than a simple embrace. She said it again, almost a command. He felt himself responding, almost against his will.

"_Honour_ . . ." he breathed, his arms creeping around her, pulling her soft willing curves against him. Her hands were already under his tunic, her teasing, tantalising touch on his flesh.

"_Ah hem_!" Someone loudly cleared his throat.

They startled like two guilty teenagers caught making out on her mother's longseat. Honour pulled out of Starbuck's embrace, turning her back on the intruder, regaining her composure.

Starbuck reflexively turned towards the hatch.

"It was open," Apollo explained, hovering on the threshold, looking more than a little surprised and embarrassed at what he'd walked into.

Turning away, Starbuck let out a ragged breath, raking a hand through his hair. He took a moment to tuck in his tunic as he willed his body back under control. About now, the captain would be making his apologies and beating a hasty exit, leaving them again alone. A long moment of uncomfortable silence stretched into another when that didn't happen. Honour picked up Tara, settling her on a hip, cooing to the child, once again the pristine image of motherhood. She was like two different women, one so high-principled and virtuous, the other more erotic than a high-level socialator . . .

He winced at the guilt that suddenly shot through him. _Cassiopeia . . . _

"The commander sent me, Starbuck," Apollo said, this time taking a step into the suite.

"Oh."

At least it explained why Apollo hadn't left. His friend was looking at him strangely, his gaze swinging back and forth between him and Honour.

"At a loss for words? Felix got your tongue?" Apollo teased him.

"Just about," Starbuck repeated wryly, letting out a slow breath and trying to shake off the conflicting emotions doing their best to overwhelm him, and close to victory.

"_Starbuck_," Honour protested indignantly, her tone subdued as she affixed the kerchief back into place over her hair.

"Sorry," he murmured, sucking in one more breath before turning to face Apollo. "Duty calls. Uh . . . what did the commander want, buddy? Long-range patrol to Eternia?"

"We wouldn't do that to you at a time like this," Apollo replied, trying without much success to contain his apparent mirth.

"Don't want the ranks accusing you of favouritism, after all," Starbuck mused aloud.

"Exactly."

Apollo ventured into the centre of the room, turning to soak up the ambience. He slowly looked around, his eyes drinking in the lush décor. "Wow," he said. "This is _incredible_."

"Then you didn't know about it either?" Starbuck asked him, welcoming a chance to divert all attention from him and Honour.

"I knew it was here. The only time we had the occasion to use it that I know of was when the Orion Chancellor was aboard." Apollo paused in thought. "That was before your time."

"So it's for statesmen and the like?" Honour asked. "Not actual crew."

"Yes," agreed Apollo. "President Adar used a similar stateroom for his quarters aboard the _Atlantia_."

"Which raises the question, why did Faxon give _me_ the entry code? Did he, uh . . . overstep his authority?" Starbuck asked, knowing full well he had probably encouraged that.

"Not _exactly_ . . ." Apollo hesitated, glancing over at Honour.

Starbuck sighed, turning to his wife. "Easy come, easy go?"

"That's alright," Honour replied. "The Lord takes care of His children. Something will come up." She bowed her head, cradling her child, planting tender kisses on Tara's blonde hair.

Apollo frowned. "Actually, this isn't an error, but it _is_ a temporary solution. Honour and Tara can stay here for now. But there's a small catch, buddy."

"A_ small_ catch?" Starbuck echoed, feeling like he was missing something. There was_ always_ a catch. "How do you mean?"

"It's almost tailor-made for you, Starbuck." Apollo grinned. "You'll get to be the centre of attention, after all."

"The centre of attention?" Honour said nervously. "How so?"

"Well . . ."


	14. Chapter 14

It had seemed so simple, a request in exchange for extravagant, albeit temporary, quarters aboard the _Galactica_. If Honour could frankly discuss the Arian Freighter conditions with Family Services and then spare five centons with Starbuck for a special _IFB_ segment explaining how they had met, been sealed, separated and then reunited, that was all the Council wished. There had been only one problem.

"May I think about it and let you know, Captain Apollo?"

Starbuck's mouth had dropped open in shock.

"Uh . . . is there something that you're worried about, Honour?" Apollo had asked.

She had ducked her head, considering her reply for a moment. "I still have friends on the Arian Freighter, Captain. I don't want to do them more harm than good."

"I'm sure the enquiries would be handled discreetly."

"I wish I had your confidence, Captain Apollo, but I have experience otherwise."

"What about the _IFB_?"

"That's impossible."

"I don't understand. Why?"

Apollo was still shaking his head, thinking back on it. Both he and his father had been so sure that helping Family Services and inspiring the Fleet with her reunion story would be something that Honour would be thrilled to do. However, apparently having her image replicated through the _IFB_ was something forbidden by the fundamentalists of the Kobollian Order, dating back to an ancient writ in the Book of the Word.

While her explanations on the surface seemed reasonable, there was something that just wasn't sitting well with Apollo about Honour. Beyond a doubt he could trace that uneasy feeling to the moment when he had almost walked in on the wholesome Kobollian Novice turned fiery vixen, completely spellbinding a man who was no stranger to the allure of the opposite sex. Lords, even Apollo had felt an involuntary carnal stirring under the force of her undeniable sensuality, and _he_ hadn't been the one directly in her sights. It seemed so immoral or depraved.

Then again, maybe he just needed to get out more.

The truth was he had come full circle, from the judgmental captain to the supportive friend, but had then shot off on another trajectory, finally worried about Starbuck. Was he overreacting? Hades hole, Starbuck had probably been champing at the bit to ditch Apollo and have Honour to himself, especially in light of her erotic show. Yet the "two faces" of Honour seemed so paradoxical, that Apollo couldn't help but wonder if her nature was more duplicitous than he wanted to believe, even if only for Starbuck's sake.

He sighed, realizing his prejudice might stem from his own Kobollian upbringing where Priestesses in training would never in a million yahrens swank like a bawdy streetwalker, oozing promiscuity and affecting every living male within sight . . .

"Apollo?"

Apollo startled, pulled from his troubled thoughts at the sound of the familiar voice. "Colonel?"

"Might I have a word?"

"Sir?"

"It's about Starbuck."


	15. Chapter 15

While Starbuck had been relieved when Apollo had left them alone to talk, he hadn't quite imagined his conversation with the unassuming and docile ex-Kobollian novice would go like this.

"I _can't_," Honour said, defending her refusal to acquiesce to the commander's requests. "You don't understand."

"No, I_ don't_ understand!" Starbuck exclaimed, wincing when Tara started to whimper at his tone of voice.

Honour was at the toddler's side in a moment, scooping her up and cradling her. Gone was the sexy siren that had captivated Starbuck so completely before Apollo had arrived. In her place was the fragile mother that he had seen earlier in the commander's office. Why did he suddenly get the feeling that she was hiding behind their child?

"Please don't yell; you're upsetting Tara," Honour said quietly.

"I'm _not_ yelling," Starbuck replied, sucking in a breath between gritted teeth before blowing it out again. "You told Apollo that your Order doesn't permit you to replicate your image, yet you know as well as I do that you have a holoptic of us in your bag from the day we were sealed." He threw up his hands in frustration. "What's the difference, Honour? Some obscure _subsection_ specifying how much of your soul is damned to Hades Hole if you defy holy writ just a _little_ bit? Let me guess, you have soul to spare?"

She looked up at him, and he was sure she looked surprised for an instant before she turned her back on him, shushing their child. Her voice, when it came, was thick with emotion. "That's hurtful, Starbuck. Why are you doing this?"

"Because I happen to believe that we should do what Commander Adama asked." He waved a hand at the luxurious accommodations. "It's the_ least_ we could do, actually!"

"And of course it has nothing to do with him being your commanding officer?" She looked at him, accusingly. "Or that his son and you are obviously friends_, buddy_?" she scoffed, actually trembling in anger. "You're putting their wishes before _our_ welfare, and belittling my religious beliefs!"

"That's ridiculous! You're being irrational!" he returned, angry at her accusations.

Tara's whimpers suddenly escalated, turning into a sharp wail that would send the very daggits of Hades Hole careening back to the underworld. He cringed, wanting very much to go with them. Then regret began to rear its ugly head . . .

"Please leave," Honour said over her shoulder, while Tara screeched.

"But . . ."

"Get out!" she shrieked shrilly.


	16. Chapter 16

"Apollo, the more I learned, the more I realized that there were a few things that bothered me about the sudden appearance of Starbuck's wife," Colonel Tigh said, walking down the grey, stark corridors of the _Galactica_. "For instance, as I understand it, Honour claims that she applied for survivor benefits after Starbuck went missing at Hoedus. If that's true, then why wasn't he eventually notified of his wife's obvious existence after he was rescued?"

Apollo nodded. "Starbuck said something about the nightmare of being reinstated after being officially recorded as missing in action." Apollo slowed his step, shaking his head. "I admit that surprised me. He even mentioned his file being a particular problem."

"A _particular_ problem?" Tigh repeated.

"That's what he said."

"More so than his fellow warriors?" Tigh asked.

"So I gathered. He said it took him a while to get reinstated to active duty, during which time he was actually trying to find out if Honour had survived."

"I see. If only we could retrieve some of those records to find out what the hold-up was."

"Isn't that information on Starbuck's file?" Apollo asked.

Tigh shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Isn't that unusual? Our files are supposed to record everything. You can't change your socks without a notation in there. Shouldn't we have record of whether or not anyone collected benefits on Starbuck's behalf during that time?"

"We should. We should _also_ have record of the Colonial Service notifying Honour that Starbuck was alive, and that all benefit payments were being stopped . . . but we don't."

"I don't understand. Why not?"

"I wish I knew, Apollo. It's almost as if that part of his file had been erased."

"Erased? What makes you think that, Colonel?"

Tigh frowned, hesitating.

"Sir?" Apollo prompted him.

"Well . . . according to the computer's redundant time index record, Starbuck's file was tampered with somewhat recently."

"Come again?"

"Just before the infiltration mission on Arcta." Tigh paused in the corridor as they drew closer to the Colonial Security Office. "It occurs to me that it really isn't that difficult to breach security and alter official documentation, as long as one has access to our computer system, as well as some basic skills. I suppose we just figured no one would be brash enough to try it."

Apollo closed his eyes briefly, almost able to see the scene play out. Yeah, he could just imagine it: Starbuck manipulating his way onto a mission, while grumbling in his usual way when later he "discovered" he was assigned to participate. It was classic Starbuck: the reluctant hero they all knew and loved. Why hadn't he seen it before? _Probably because you were distracted by a deadly weapon trying to destroy the _Galactica_ and the Fleet_ . . . Feeling more like a school boy than a strike captain, he still felt the instinctive need to defend his friend. "Colonel, are you inferring that _Starbuck_ . . .?"

"Over Arcta?" Tigh raised his eyebrows. "Most likely, although I can't prove anything. However, I had an enlightening conversation with Corporal Komma."

"Komma?"

"He was the on-duty technician when the computer was putting together the task force. Komma recalled leaving his station in Starbuck's charge when a Kobollian priest that he'd known as a youngster was passing by." His lips tightened sceptically. Clearly he wasn't convinced the story was entirely accurate. "Don't try to defend Starbuck, Apollo. He wanted on that mission for one reason: to recover the missing cadet under his command. I still remember him getting close to insubordination on the Bridge when he made his report. He was upset about losing those boys, and I could hardly blame him. He wanted to go down to Arcta so badly that he would have done anything to get there."

"But . . ."

"I'll deal with that another time," Tigh continued. "While I don't agree with his methods, I _do_ understand his motivation."

Apollo nodded. He understood what it was to suffer the ravages of guilt, doubt and "what if" after losing a warrior under his charge. While he recognized that Starbuck had broken regulations, privately, he admired his friend's resourcefulness, determination and allegiance, not to mention his Diabolis-may-care attitude about getting caught. Thinking back, Apollo had racked his brain trying to think of some way to get Starbuck back after losing him in the Void before Kobol. In that case, there had been no recourse. His emotional wounds still raw from losing his mother and Zac, the strike captain realized now that his bitter disappointment might have eaten him alive if it hadn't been for Serina's support . . . He took a deep breath, putting an abrupt stop to his dark musings.

"What about the part of his records regarding his survivor benefits, Colonel? You don't think Starbuck would alter those, do you?"

"Honestly, I can't see how it would be an advantage to Starbuck to erase those, unless he's trying to hide something that I can't for the life of me figure out. As well, according to all the acquired data, the current record of that time period hasn't been altered since Starbuck was transferred to the _Galactica_."

"Then you're suggesting that someone _else_ altered those records?" Apollo surmised.

"It's possible."

"But who and why?"

"I don't know. Not yet anyway." He waved a hand towards the Colonial Security Office.

"There's more?" Apollo asked.

"I'm afraid so."


	17. Chapter 17

He'd shared some of his most exhilarating moments with her. Sleek, sexy, she responded equally to Starbuck's touch whether he lovingly coaxed her or pushed her to her limits of endurance. She didn't get jealous. She didn't have secrets. Her mood was never labile. She was predictable, almost to a fault. She always forgave him his vices and never expected more than he was willing to give. But over and above everything else that he truly appreciated about her, he always knew where he stood with her.

"Lords of Kobol, why can't women be more like Vipers," Starbuck lamented, blowing out a puff of smoke as he climbed up onto his bird, sitting on the edge and looking off across the launch bay.

A wife, a daughter, the family that he had been conditioned to wish for since he was a child, yet he was far from "happy" in the "happily-ever-after" sense. If a guy took the time to analyse his feelings—precisely as long as it took to light his smoke, if anyone was wondering—then the truth was he hadn't felt this trapped since the last time he'd been captured by the Cylons. Exploring that line of thought, at least with Cylons a guy knew where he stood. _They_ wanted him dead, and at this point, he actually respected that. After all, the feeling was mutual.

Sworn enemies, they understood one another.

With Honour, however, one centon she was as fragile as a delicate blossom in a harsh, frigid, breeze, and the next she was pulling his clothes off. Then finally when he hadn't succumbed to tears and had stood up for what he had believed in, she had turned into some kind of harpy, determined to burst his eardrums, driving him away with her vile screeching as effectively as a Cylon phalanx. A sceptical guy might start to wonder if she was hiding behind her divergent, if oft times mutually exclusive roles as devout Kobollian and mother, but why? What did she have to hide? His head was spinning, trying to keep up with her pendulous mood swings. Add to that the constant barrage of expectations that everyone else seemed to be firing at him, telling him how he should act and feel, what he should do . . . well, it made a Viper pilot want to jump into his bird and leave them all far behind.

Sighing, Starbuck climbed into his cockpit, taking another drag of his smoke, his head slumped back against the headrest. He could picture it now: one man, one Viper and the whole galaxy out there in front of them to explore. Lords, it was like a beautiful dream, racing at full turbos through a sparkling starscape, away from all his troubles. He could discover a brave, new world. Call it the Planet Starbuck. He could live out his life according to his own rules, doing, thinking and feeling without anybody telling him it was selfish or wrong. He could run away . . .

Oh yeah, he could be selfish, irresponsible, and every other negative adjective associated with him since he was a young man. Obviously there was something _wrong_ with him to even entertain the idea of abandoning his wife and child. He shook his head, wishing now that he'd taken Honour up on doing the paternity test when she'd offered. But he couldn't go back on that promise, not now. It would be dishonourable, ignoble, contemptible . . . also descriptions associated with him of late.

_Damned if you do, damned if you don't . . . damned in general, Bucko . . . _

Yeah, he was feeling lower than a bilge water rat. He tried to shake off his funk, hating just how sorry he felt for himself. After all, he was as much an optimist as he was a cynic, and yes the two _could_ exist concurrently. He was living proof. _You're blowing things all out of proportion, Bucko. Lord Sagan, if you can't trust the woman you married, who can you trust?_

No, he needed to turn things around again, and get back on track. He should probably do something to make up for their fight. He wasn't going to say he was sorry. After all, he wasn't. But if he could think of something meaningful . . . thoughtful . . . something she would appreciate enough to forgive his smart astrum remarks about her beliefs, well, at least it would be a good way to ease the way to his wife letting him back in her door . But what would that be . . .?

He smiled.

As ideas went, it was probably one of his better ones. He grinned, clamping his fumarello between his teeth and pushing himself up out of the cockpit. Honour would love him for this, and after all, wasn't that what marriage was all about?


	18. Chapter 18

"So this is the scene of the tragedy," Sire Anton said, shaking his head in the Reclamation Centre of the Mastodon Freighter. He sighed loudly as he stared up at the huge vat of chemicals used in diluted quantities for breaking down solids in the waste water before it was filtered. It had to be at least six metrons tall and half as far across. From what he'd been told, it had an access port about a half metron square on one end, presumably for testing the acidity. They'd been informed they could go no closer, since, aside from the ordinary dangers, Colonial Security was investigating it as a crime scene. Indeed, it was visibly cordoned off.

"She . . . stepped right into it, carrying her child, leaving her note behind," the attendant, Dex, explained.

"How . . . absolutely horrific," the old Councilman replied. "Her baby . . ."

"Yes, Sire Anton. Normally, it's secured, but she used a pry bar to break the locking mechanism. The alarm didn't go off."

"Why not?"

"Maintenance isn't all it could be, Sire," Dex continued, looking around at the people gathered to see the popular and well-known bureautician supporting his people. Short, thin and bald, and slightly stooped over, the lines in Dex's weathered face were deeply creased in sorrow at the loss of life in his workplace. "Of course, no one ever thought . . ." His words trailed off and he shook his head mutely.

Anton put a hand on his arm. "Of course you didn't, my boy. Who among us could foresee such a . . . such a _dreadful_ end? Did the young woman have any other family?"

"No, sir. Just her and the child. They kept to themselves."

"Perhaps that had something to do with her despondency," the Councilman mused. "A shared burden is an easier one to bear." He turned to direct his comments to the group at large. "Something we should all keep in mind during difficult times like these."

There were a few murmurs and nods.

"We plan to improve security to this area, Sire, making sure that nothing like this ever happens again," Dex informed him.

Anton nodded. "Any plan that improves the safety of both our workers and our civilians is a welcome one, Dex."

"Sire," Erastus, his aide, stepped forward, with an eagerness and energy so indicative of the young. "It's time to go to the commissary for the memorial service."

"Yes, of course," Anton said, turning to squeeze the attendant's forearm. "Dex, I thank you for taking the time out of your important work to take an old man on a tour of your facility. May the Lords of Kobol bless you and keep you well, guiding you through this difficult time."

"And you, Sire Anton," the attendant replied respectfully, watching him depart, many of those gathered continuing to follow them.

"Erastus, have we heard from Lieutenant Starbuck yet about whether or not he and his reunited family have agreed to theIFB interview?"

"No, sir," Erastus replied, feeling as though he was being swept along in the crowd, they were so close. As usual, nothing fazed the venerable sire. "However, Zara has been personally checking in regularly, impatiently awaiting an answer."

"Hmm, I'll prod Adama again. He sounded certain that this Honour would agree to our terms. We very badly need a story like this right now. People need to know that there's good along with the bad. They need to be able to put themselves in Honour's shoes and identify with her difficult journey, ending in a joyous reunion with her long-missing husband."

Erastus smiled. "That's not half bad, Sire. Perhaps Inter Fleet Broadcasting will use it." Someone tugged at his robe from behind, and he half-turned in irritation before returning his attention to the sire.

Anton smiled in delight. "Do you think so? Of course, we'd need to work in the child . . . the separation . . . the struggle . . ."

"Yes, sir. And the fact that they both thought the other dead."

"Ah yes, that as well." Anton paused, seeing the Kobollian priest ahead of them and lifting a hand in greeting. He pivoted back to his aide, stopping in stride as people funnelled past them. "Erastus, the delay could be as simple as them needing to move Honour's things from the Arian Freighter to the _Galactica_. Tedious reality could be coming between me and my public relations inspiration. It could very well be that Adama is expecting our dedicated war hero to carry his wife's belongings over in his Viper." He chuckled at his own wit. "See if there's anything we can do to hasten the process; there's a good man."

"You can count on me, Sire."

"I know, my boy."

In a billow of his Council robes, Sire Anton moved down the corridor, on to the next matter at hand. Erastus couldn't help but smile, impressed at his seemingly limitless energy. Then a burly figure in a dark robe pushed him aside roughly, without a word, as he hastened away. Erastus couldn't help but notice how from his impressive bulk, his dark, billowing robes seemed to swallow up the white ones of Anton's, all but obliterating them until he swept completely past. Then he was gone.


	19. Chapter 19

"As you know, the Council wants Honour to speak with Family Services in regards to conditions aboard the Arian Freighter," Colonel Tigh said, taking a seat in the Colonial Security Office and motioning for the strike captain to do the same. "I discovered during a routine background check on her that, coincidentally, Family Services hasn't actually ever been able to successfully contact her since she registered during census. In fact, on three separate attempts they failed to find her at all while aboard the Arian Freighter."

Apollo frowned, glancing at the Security Officer briefly. Proctor was looking over the data on his computer. "Routine background check?" the captain asked.

Tigh shrugged. "Starbuck is an officer entrusted with high-level classified military information. It's routine, Apollo."

He nodded. Routinely it was done so quietly behind the scenes that he'd almost forgotten about it. The Colonial Service didn't want any potential embarrassments or security risks. "Of course."

"We do have testaments from another passenger that says Honour was simply off helping others in need during that time," Proctor inserted, looking up.

"You don't believe that?" Apollo asked.

"It certainly fits with her history," Tigh replied. "The Kobollian novice from the Mercy Ship. But . . ."

"But . . ."

"Intriguingly, it was the _same_ woman all three times that vouched for Honour," Proctor replied, pointing to the data. "Her name is Ondine. Arian. Widowed mother with four children. Husband was reportedly a fire fighter, killed on duty while part of a rescue operation in a Health Centre during the Destruction."

"And?"

"On the last visit, one of the Family Service workers filed a report questioning the authenticity of Ondine's identity," Proctor replied. "She was certain that the woman was in fact a single mother from Taura whom she met while doing her training there."

"Does that really matter, Proctor?" Apollo asked. "After everything that's happened?"

"Not enough to pursue it _then_, considering the case load," Proctor admitted. "However, the woman in question was apparently charged for fraud on Taura. That doesn't exactly make her the ideal spokeswoman for Honour here and now."

From his training in the codes at the Academy, Apollo was more than aware that most of this was conjecture and hearsay. All the same, his gut was telling him they were on to something. "But you don't know for sure."

"That's right. We never investigated it. We had enough on our plates, and as you probably are aware, Captain, she isn't the first person from the Colonies to use the Destruction as a chance for a fresh start."

"So, where do you think Honour was, if not in her quarters on the Arian Freighter?" Apollo asked.

Proctor didn't answer. Instead he asked, "Did you hear about the tragedy on the Mastodon Freighter this morning, Captain Apollo?"

"The young woman that killed herself and her child. Yes, of course. It's all over the Fleet, sadly."

"Her name was Hope. Her daughter was Lara. It's a case that stands out for me, mainly because it reminds me of another tragedy a couple sectars ago on the Foundry Ship," Proctor said, raising his eyebrows in question.

Apollo shook his head, unfamiliar with it. "I don't think I recall . . ."

"Another young single mother hurled herself _and_ her baby girl into a 2600 degree pit of molten tylinium, leaving nothing behind but a suicide note."

Apollo grimaced, letting out a grunt of disbelief. "Same modus operandi. This can't be coincidence."

"There's more. Her name was Faith," Tigh told him. "Her daughter was Sarah."

"Hope, Faith, Honour. Lara, Sarah, Tara." Apollo shook his head in bewilderment. "Are you suggesting . . .?" He hesitated, trying to sort the bizarre set of facts into some semblance of order. Had the women actually committed suicide or had something or _someone,_ driven them to it? Was it in fact termination? Is that why Honour didn't want to be on the _IFB_? Was she hiding from someone or something? "_What_ are you suggesting? Is Honour related to these other women? Is she in danger?"

"I wish I knew for sure, Captain," Proctor replied. "Right now I have every available officer trying to come up with a possible witness on the Mastodon Freighter. We're talking to people who knew Hope and her daughter, trying to figure out why she'd do this, what would drive her to it. Meanwhile, I'm going to personally ask Honour if she knew the other two women. I'm hoping she can shed some light on all of this if we offer her protection . . ."

"We should tell Starbuck," Apollo said.

"Don't you think we should get our facts straight before we burden Starbuck with this, Apollo?" Tigh countered. "Doesn't he have enough on his mind just now?"

Apollo drew in a deep breath, nodding in resignation. After all, Honour was on a secure military vessel. It was the safest place in the Fleet. "I suppose you're right, Colonel."

"What if Honour won't talk?" Colonel Tigh asked Proctor.

"Well . . ."

"Then we go back to the Arian Freighter," Apollo finished. "In fact . . . I'm going to get Boomer and go over there now. I'd like to ask around about Honour, maybe even find this Ondine . . ."

Tigh smiled. "I was hoping you'd see it that way."


	20. Chapter 20

"_Who_?" the woman asked through yellowed, crooked and gapped teeth, her frizzy grey-brown hair enveloping her face like a short-circuited aura. She tucked it back as if it was acting as some kind of sound barrier between them. Then she turned her head, cupping her hand to her ear. "_Eh_?"

"_Honour_," Starbuck repeated a little louder this time over the ambient noise of the engines. He couldn't help but wonder if her hearing had been permanently affected by the constant din. "Mid-twenties, thin, brown hair, blue eyes, very Kobollian, very helpful . . ."

The woman shook her head before an angry squawk from her skirts distracted her. She reached down, separating two children who were poking at each other, using her voluminous dark skirts as some kind of playhouse. "Never heard of Honour. Would have thought you warriors had honour enough blasting tin heads without needing to come looking for it on a passenger freighter." She snickered. "Especially this one."

"Uh . . .yeah." He smiled to let her know he detected her little attempt at humor. "She was living here with her baby. A little girl named Tara, just over a yahren old."

"Doesn't ring a bell. What do you want her for, anyhow? Just in case I come across her, you understand."

It occurred to him that she might just think he was up to no good, at least in some kind of official capacity. "I'm not _looking_ for her. I'm _married_ to her." No one else would find that simple statement of truth as ironic as he did after his and Honour's last exchange. "We were just reunited for the first time since before the Destruction. I wanted to pick up the rest of her things and hopefully connect with a few of her friends. I know she won't want to lose touch with people she's known here."

She stood there sizing him up for a long moment, then finally grinned, giving him the full benefit of her dental decay. "You have an honest face. Give me a centon and I'll ask around. Old Lil knows everyone."

xxxxx

Usually, an interview of this nature would take place in the Colonial Security Office; however, Honour hadn't done anything wrong that they were aware of. In an effort to make her feel more at ease in order to gain her trust and cooperation, Proctor had instead chosen to speak to her in her new quarters on the _Galactica_. She had been polite when he'd appeared without warning, bidding him forth across the threshold, offering him refreshments that were on hand in these seemingly well-stocked quarters. She was the epitome of courtesy, confused by his presence, but willing to hear him out.

Throughout his monologue Honour had sat very still, her attention seemingly more on her tiny daughter playing at her feet than the Colonial Security Officer's words. She gave every indication of being the attentive mother and devout Kobollian that had been represented to him by other sources. Still, he found her difficult to read. She appeared to internalize her reactions and emotions. He wasn't sure if that was her reserved personality or if she was using her daughter as a sort of defensive barrier against his scrutiny.

"Why haven't Family Services been able to contact you, Honour?" Proctor pressed her after a lapse that he was beginning to find uncomfortable. Normally, it was the person he was questioning that would feel the need to fill a conspicuous silence. In fact, that was one of his tactics in interrogation. "I get the feeling it's more than just coincidence."

"Do you?" she returned quietly, bowing her head and picking up Tara. She cradled her child against her, slowly rocking back and forth, the motion apparently comforting to both of them.

"Generally, they're able to help single mothers in need."

"I'm not a single mother . . . at least not anymore," she murmured quietly, her eyes downcast.

"But you didn't realize that until somewhat recently. Isn't that true?"

Her hand lightly touched her kerchief and she hesitated before responding. "There were many others in far greater need than I." She looked up at him again, her conviction giving her strength. "My faith gives me more comfort than any resource worker could."

"I see." It was a little disturbing, especially when Proctor could see how painfully thin she was. However, the tot was obviously healthy and happy. How much had Honour sacrificed to keep Tara that way? "So you didn't feel you needed their services?"

"That's correct."

"Why didn't you simply tell them so?"

She dropped her eyes again, shrugging. Apparently, that hadn't occurred to her.

"Did you know the two women I spoke of, Honour? Faith and Hope?" Proctor asked.

She glanced at him briefly for a moment, before setting her fussing child down on the floor. She seemed to be struggling to decide what to do or say next, her now empty hands wringing her robes in silent agitation.

"We can help, Honour. Tell us what's happening, and we can protect you both," Proctor said, finding himself very much wanting to do that as he gazed on the solemn lone wisp of a woman.

Sorrowful blue eyes met his for a moment, and he was struck by the fear he saw there. She drew a deep breath before abruptly standing up and turning away. She watched her daughter play with an old rag doll, as she seemingly considered his words, weighing them. She looked so vulnerable, as though a strong gust of wind could knock her over.

"Honour?" Proctor prompted her again. "For the sake of your _daughter_, let us help you . . ."

"He's a maniac," she said so quietly, he almost missed it. "I tried to disappear, but now I realize our _only_ escape is in the hereafter . . . like Faith and Hope's . . ."

"Then you _did_ know them. It doesn't have to come to that," Proctor reassured her, leaning forward in his chair. "Just tell me who he is. I promise you that he won't bother you again."

xxxxx

"Honour, huh?" The crewman that Apollo and Boomer had been directed to on the Arian Freighter snorted aloud. He tossed his head, his brown, layered hair taking on a life of its own as it fell perfectly back into place. "_She's_ popular all of a sudden. Makes me want to look her up myself, see what the big attraction is."

Apollo narrowed his eyes, glancing at Boomer briefly. Apparently, the wiry fellow considered himself somewhat of a lady's man. "Someone else was asking about Honour, Barion?"

"Not some_one_, so much as some _two_," Barion grinned, chuckling to himself. "Two men: one about ten centons behind the other."

"When was this?" Boomer asked.

"Within the last fifteen centons, I guess." Barion pointed to the pile of accumulated data on his desk. "Been wading through this, so I'm not really sure."

"Who were they?"

"The last one was a Colonial Warrior, like yourself," Barion replied with a shrug. "A lieutenant, I think."

"Did you get a name?" Apollo asked.

"Yeah. Starbuck."

Boomer raised his eyebrows, meeting Apollo's eyes. After being filled in by the captain, he found himself regretting his earlier harsh words to Starbuck. After all, if he hadn't slammed his friend with a dose of stone-cold reality, explaining the mysterious concept of "responsibility", maybe Starbuck would have searched him out before venturing over here on his own. "What's he up to?" he said to Apollo.

Apollo shook his head. "I don't know. I would have thought he'd be with Honour."

"What about the other guy?" Boomer asked the crewman.

"Said he was with Family Services," Barion told them. "Didn't give a name, at least that I can remember, just flashed his designation status, as usual."

"What did he look like?"

"Big bruiser. Looked like an Orion Hasher in his downtime, actually. Not the usual type. He was dressed all in black, and wore a long, dark cloak. Not exactly inconspicuous."

"And where did you send him?" Apollo asked.

"Same place I sent your friend, Lieutenant." Barion replied, tapping at his datapad. "Deck eighteen, Omega Section."


	21. Chapter 21

"Someone's leading you a merry chase, Warrior," Old Lil said in a gruff voice, her cloudy blue eyes vivid in her wizened face, even in the dim light of the Arian Freighter. A delicate black shawl covered her wispy grey hair, and a shapeless coarse robe hung loosely on her. The ancient woman slowly stepped forward with her cane, squinting up at him, her bent and twisted body not hampering her determination to look him in the eye. She crooked a gnarled finger at him, beckoning him closer with an unspoken authority that he reacted instinctively to.

"Call me Starbuck, _Mater_," he said, sensing this woman was deserving of respect. Starbuck leaned down a little closer to the old dame, picking up the distinct aroma of Leonid Balm on her. His distinct impression of kindness and wisdom in her reminded him of several matrons he'd known over the yahrens during his time at the orphanages of Caprica.

"Only if you call me, Lil," she replied with an engaging smile that could lighten the dourest of days, even in space.

"All right. What makes you think I'm being led on a chase, Lil?" Starbuck asked, wondering if maybe she wasn't quite as sharp as he'd first presumed. After all, it looked like she and Sagan had played in the same sand box, Sagan being the younger of the two.

"I may be old, but I'm not crazy," Lil told him, as if she had heard his thoughts. "This Honour of which you speak doesn't exist. At least not here."

"But . . . that's . . . not possible," he replied, shaking his head. After all, he had living proof that she existed back on the _Galactica_. "She _lived_ here. She boarded a shuttle with her daughter from this very freighter at the start of today's cycle. They have her listed on the ship's manifest!"

Lil simply shook her head sadly at him. "I have no reason to lead you astray, Starbuck. She doesn't bide here."

"But . . ." he murmured, straightening his frame and raking a hand through his hair as he tried to make sense of it. He couldn't.

"I know every man, woman and child on this deck and every other, Alpha to Omega Sections. I know the bridge crew, the engine crew, the galley crew, and all those in between. Trust me, boy, I know or knew everyone who's called this pile of corrosion with an engine on it home, since we fled the Colonies. I _don't_ know Honour," Old Lil said, reaching forward shakily to lightly squeeze his hand.

"I don't get it . . . I mean, how . . ."

"But I_ do_ know someone who might."

xxxxx

Getting information out of Honour was like coaxing a scared turtle out of its shell. The woman had obviously been terrorized and traumatized by this "maniac" who had allegedly killed two women and children in the Fleet, covering up both incidents with enough skill that they appeared to be suicides. The subject obviously had enough relevant experience and knowledge to confound Colonial forensics during their exhaustive investigation. Based on his yahrens of experience in the Caprica City Civil Security Force, it made Proctor suspect that if Honour could identify the man, that he might already know the killer, at least by reputation.

Proctor had given her a moment to get herself a cold drink of fruit juice and to try to compose herself, but if anything, on return to her seat she looked more pale, actually verging on sickly, than she had before.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, adjusting the kerchief over her head, tucking a few damp tendrils of hair back inside.

"Don't be," Proctor replied, pulling out his datapad. "I know this must be difficult for you, but we'll get you through it."

She nodded. "Thank you, Officer."

"Who is he, Honour?" Proctor asked again.

She ducked her head once again, her hands compulsively wringing her robes. "He's a serial killer, responsible for the termination of twelve poor souls during a two yahren period on Aries."

"_Jephte_?" Proctor gasped. His memory thus jogged, he remembered the Arian cases well. Before news of the upcoming Armistice had driven it from the news-vids, it had been the lead story on half of the colonies.

The killer struck every two to four sectars, selecting a victim or victims, but in each case the murder at first appeared to be a suicide. Open and shut. Sometimes single women, sometimes sealed, then one finally accompanied by a very young child; it took over twelve sectars before the authorities realized they were dealing with a serial killer, and not some mysterious suicidal sect that they were investigating when an eerie similarity to an obscure passage in the Book of the Word was revealed.

Jephte had been a chieftain of the tenth tribe of Kobol during the most bloodthirsty period recorded in the annals of mankind. God bade him lead a holy war against the Molech, a people who had fallen from favour for their wicked ways. Yahrens of bloody battle ensued, and finally the day came when what finally remained of two mighty armies faced each other across a blood-soaked battlefield. Weary, Jephte wanted an end to the hostilities. It was time for his artisans of destruction to pour out God's indignation, breathing His fiery wrath upon the enemy. The Molech were to be fuel for His fire, their blood was to flow throughout the land. Swords were drawn for slaughter, burnished to consume and to flash lightning through the hearts of the enemy.

No, it wasn't on the agenda for the usual Holy Day teachings.

Determined that God's will would finally be done, Jephte swore upon his honour that if God should grant him victory over his enemies, then he would sacrifice for His glory whatever or whoever came out of the doors of his home to meet him when he returned in peace. Victory did come, after such carnage and butchery as even he had rarely seen, but at the cost of humanity. After the Molech army had been destroyed, the enmity of Jephte's army turned on the nearest Molech villages. Women and children were terminated, burned alive, to appease a vengeful God.

Then when the day finally came that a weary, tired Jephte had returned to his home, what first came out of his home was his twelve beautiful daughters, arm in arm. Having fought over who would be the first to greet their heroic father, they had laughingly decided to greet him en masse. He had dropped to his knees, groaning, tears streaming down his face, tearing off his armour in anguish, proclaiming, "My daughters! My heart is breaking! What a tragedy that you came out to greet me, for I have made a vow to the Lord and cannot take it back!"

Proctor wracked his brain, recalling the names of Jephte's daughters: Grace, Glory, Chastity, Destiny, Bliss, Melody, Harmony, Charity, Joy, Faith, Hope, and Honour. In order of their age and two to three sectars apart, in ancient times they had been burned alive, sacrificed for the glory of God, or perhaps as an example of his displeasure. Theologians had, of course, theorized that Jephte paid through the lives of his daughters for his army's sins against the women and children of Molech.

Lacking any credible leads and as a result of the story, the serial killer on Aries had been labeled "Jephte". Now that Proctor thought about it, nine women, three with children, had been terminated before the Destruction. Faith and Hope had been terminated within the last couple sectars, leaving only Honour's death to complete the cycle. There _had_ been a link between Faith, Hope and Honour, but it wasn't anything to do with them being single mothers or relatives. They simply had been called after one of Jephte's daughters, the Martyrs for Humanity in Kobollian theology.

Profiling on "Jephte" had indicated an organized offender with above average intelligence, with a consistently high degree of control over his crime scene and a solid knowledge of forensic science. Proctor recalled the fear that had swept over Aries and the growing rage with the Arian Civil Security Force when they failed again and again to apprehend the killer. And, as if to add insult to injury, taunting letters began to arrive, mocking the authorities for their failure to find the killer, daring them to catch him. The severity of the crimes even had bureauticians rehashing the debate over the long-abolished death penalty. Every husband, brother, father, and son familiar with the case would have cheerfully volunteered as executioner if "Jephte" had been brought to justice.

"Yes, _Jephte_ . . ." Honour whispered, shuddering involuntarily. "Who else could it be?"


	22. Chapter 22

"_Jephte_?" Apollo repeated over the comm unit on the Arian Freighter, after being contacted by the Colonial Security Officer. Like virtually everyone else in the Colonies that hadn't been living under a rock, he had heard of the infamous Arian serial killer. The mere name ignited feelings of disgust and outrage that he equated with only one other human: Baltar. Apollo glanced at Boomer, seeing disbelief and derision written on his friend's face. Evidently, Boomer shared his opinion. "Are you sure, Proctor? Isn't he dead?"

"_Dead is where he should be, Captain, but instead he's somewhere in the Fleet_. _He's killing these women because of their names, Captain Apollo_!" Proctor said. "_I don't know how well you know your Book of the Word, but_ . . ."

Evidently, he didn't know it_ that _well. In fact, if memory served, Apollo hadn't cracked the cover of the Holy Book since he'd regularly attended Temple with his family before going off to the Academy. After all, he had been far more interested in his beloved works of space travel and exploration as a young man. Now, after the Destruction, unabridged copies of the Book of the Word were few and far between, and Apollo was an example of the general population drifting further away from a devout practice. It wasn't that he didn't _believe_, in fact, he made sure _Boxey_ went to worship every Holy Day. It was simply that Apollo didn't have the luxury of the extra time needed to do it himself.

"He's a monster. How could anybody do something like that?" Boomer asked after the security officer outlined what he'd learned from Honour.

"_Sociopaths don't have a normal understanding of right or wrong, Lieutenant. They certainly don't have any empathy towards their fellow man, and actually disassociate themselves from their victims_, _treating them more like objects that people_," Proctor explained. "_Concepts like sorrow or pity are alien to them."_

"Sorry, Proctor, but I have a hard time even _trying_ to empathize with an animal like that," Boomer returned acerbically.

"_To catch them, Lieutenant, you __need__ to understand them_," Proctor replied. "_Know thy enemy. Didn't they teach you that at the Academy_?"

"Actually, they taught me to_ kill_ my enemy," Boomer muttered with a dark look at Apollo.

"Maybe he's doing this as some kind of protest against our people veering away from some basic Kobollian values," Apollo answered after his own contemplation, feeling an inexplicable need to make some sense of it.

"_Exactly_," Proctar agreed. "_Sociopaths like Jephte usually have a motive in one of four categories: visionary, mission-oriented, hedonistic or power and control. Sometimes they overlap. Our sociopath is obviously trying to get us to remember some fundamental teachings from our Holy Book_."

"About our treatment of women and children?" Boomer scoffed. "Maybe it's obvious to you, Proctor. To me . . . that's just plain ridiculous. I don't get it. Women have had the same rights as men in Colonial Society for millennia."

"_Don't expect it to make sense to you, Lieutenant_," Proctor warned him. "_He's a sociopath, after all._ _Their minds are operating in an alternate universe._ _Our one slim hope, and I emphasize the word 'slim', gentlemen, is that Jephte usually has what we call a 'cool down period' before he terminates his next victim_," Proctor said. "_We should have a little time_."

"Maybe. Have you heard back from Family Services?" Apollo asked. At the beginning of their conversation, the strike captain had requested that Colonial Security verify that the man searching for Honour just ahead of Starbuck was indeed there officially on the behalf of the Colonial department.

"_Just a centon, Captain_," Proctor replied, turning away from the screen for a moment, obviously asking one of his subordinates who had been pursuing the matter.

"I still can't raise Starbuck on his personal communicator," Boomer reported with a scowl, putting his back on his belt. They needed to warn their friend. Or was it already too late? If Starbuck happened to stumble upon Jephte completely unaware of whom or what he was up against . . .

"If Starbuck's here for personal reasons then he might have it deactivated . . . or it could be interference that deep inside the ship," Apollo replied, trying to fight back the rising wave of anxiety.

"_Apollo_ . . ." Boomer said tensely.

"I know, Boomer. But first let's make sure we're not tearing through this ship with lasers drawn only to find out we're traumatising some caseworker, not to mention hundreds of innocent civilians. The Council would have our heads."

Boomer sighed. "Right." He pulled his communicator back off his belt. "I'll try Starbuck again."

"_Captain_!" Proctor was back. "_Family Services isn't _on_ the Arian Freighter today. That man isn't one of their workers! I'm contacting Captain Kamda on the bridge to send you back-up! This could very well be our opportunity to apprehend Jephte!_"

"We're on our way, Proctor!" Apollo replied, his hand already seeking his weapon.

"_And Captain_!" Proctor added hastily, before they could turn away. "_As a reminder, unless you're at point blank range, a stun setting could possibly affect anyone in a ten metron radius. Even on the lowest level, the stun setting has been known to kill a small child_."

Apollo glanced at Boomer. Jephte had terminated innocent women and children, and those were only the ones they _knew_ about. Did a monstrosity like that deserve to live out the remainder of his yahrens on the Prison Barge, being supported by the very populace that he had once hunted among? As much as his head was telling him it was so, Apollo's sense of moral justice argued against it. Still, he was a Colonial Warrior, sworn to protect and uphold the very laws that at this moment seemed sadly inadequate.

"_Do you understand, Captain Apollo_?" Proctor asked.

Apollo understood only too well. If their places were reversed, Proctor would be shooting to kill if he could get Jephte in his sights. Apollo couldn't help but think about the serial killer's innocent victims at a time like this . . . how they were somebody's wives, sisters, children, terminated for no more reason than the name they were given at birth . . .

"_Captain_? _Are you receiving_?" Proctor asked insistently.

"Loud and clear," Apollo replied, severing their connection. He slammed a fist against the bulkhead, shaking his head briefly, trying to ignore the voice of reason at the back of his mind. "You heard, Boomer; lasers on kill."

Boomer nodded, quickly turning towards the hatch. "I heard! Let's go!"

xxxxx

So what exactly did it say about a relationship when a guy was more willing to trust an old woman he'd met for the very first time over his own _wife_? All the doubts and inconsistencies in Honour's story were once again racing through Starbuck's brain—granted some might claim that would be a short trip. He reminded himself that he had come to the Arian Freighter looking for a way to make amends for the rash and thoughtless things he had said to Honour in her new quarters. With only good intentions in mind, as always, while searching for her former friends he had inadvertently run into someone who had once again stirred up his misgivings, whipping his genetically-encoded commitment anxiety syndrome into a new frenzy, thereby filling his head with diabolical plots orchestrated by a timid, victimized and devout mother of one.

_His_ one, he reminded himself.

The truth was that at this point in his life and career he didn't_ want_ to be married with a child. It might be selfish to the extreme, it might be immature, but it was still the truth. He had pictured himself settling down one day, maybe on Earth. The war would be a distant memory, he would come home from work to his wife and family every night, secure in the knowledge that evil had been eradicated, and humanity would continue to thrive, and that he'd played a small part in that victory.

One look around him at the squalid conditions and misery on the Arian Freighter confirmed his misgivings about raising a family in space. The air here was fetid. The conditions were cramped. A few blank faces stared back at him, but most averted their gaze. Yeah, there had been reasons that he thought the way he did. Kids needed fresh air, a place to run, something to keep them out of trouble. The sterile and controlled environment of a ship, especially a capital warship on virtually round-the-chrono alert, was no reflection of a civilization. Yet the Council of the Twelve had no idea how long they'd be out here on this journey to a possibly mythical planet. It could be a generation. Maybe more.

Reality was like a sharp bite in the astrum, and he could readily admit, at least to himself, that as much as everyone else wanted him to face up to his responsibilities, frankly he'd rather find an escape route out of this pinwheel attack. He just couldn't see himself and Honour staying the course together. Sagan's sake, they'd barely survived their first trip down the launch tube. It was only a matter of time before they crashed and burned, hurting their little girl in the process.

The more he thought about it, the more he knew that he'd probably be a better father to Tara if he could do it from the officer's quarters. At this point, Tara wasn't used to him living with them anyhow, and if anybody knew that you couldn't miss what you never had, it was Starbuck. He could start their relationship with a clean slate, not trying to live out a lie with Honour. His heart just wasn't in it, after all.

Starbuck let out a long sigh, rounding the corner and heading through the junction that should take him to Ondine's designated living space. He still wasn't quite sure what the connection was between this woman he was seeking out and Honour, but Old Lil seemed certain that Ondine would shed some light on the mystery . . . _with_ the proper financial recompense, of course. He spied the landmark Old Lil had told him about, a temporarily erected coarse green curtain that was functioning as a door. Deftly, he stepped aside as six small children shot out from another enclosure, suddenly darting past him, giggling hysterically.

Then a strained voice cried out: "I don't know where Honour is! Honest, I don't! _Please_, let me go!"


	23. Chapter 23

"Excuse me, sir," the newbie Security Officer, Saryn, interrupted him as he severed his connection with Captain Kamda on the Arian Freighter.

Kamda's available crewmen were just now receiving orders to converge on the designated area of the passenger ship to clear out the civilians, cover all exits and cut off any chance of Jephte's escape. Unfortunately, Proctor didn't have any of his own officers in place, having pulled manpower to focus on the investigation on the Mastodon Freighter, but Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer were two of the Colonial Service's finest warriors, and a good substitute in this crisis.

"What is it, Saryn?" he asked her. She looked about fourteen yahrens old with her fresh face, wide brown eyes and the juvenile way she tied her dark hair back from her face. The daughter of an old Civil Security Force buddy, he'd taken her on against his better judgment.

"Preliminary reports are back on the Mastodon Freighter accident, Sir. I thought you'd want to know as soon as possible . . ."

"That they're dead?" he returned, sighing. He reached for the telecom once again to update Colonel Tigh on the situation. "Yeah, I figured that."

Saryn leaned against his doorway, crossing her arms, and raising a delicate eyebrow almost derisively. It was the sudden chill in the air that made him look up at her again. His sister used to look at him like that . . . when he was being a first class Boray.

"Preliminary reports show no signs of human remains, Proctor," Saryn informed him.

"Come again?"

"There are _no_ _bodies_."

xxxxx

Starbuck jerked the curtain back, revealing a light brown-haired man in a dark cloak squatting down over a woman curled into a fetal position on the deck. He was gripping her by the shoulders and shaking her. Both looked up at him in surprise, her with relief, him with surprise.

"_Let her go_!" Starbuck demanded, stepping inside the cramped makeshift "quarters".

A three tiered bunk and a couple of small sleeping mats was all it took to occupy the entire space. Beaded, fringed and brightly colored fabrics were hung on a line around the perimeter of the room, in an apparent attempt to decorate the space. It looked like some kind of exotic bazaar where peddlers would sell their wares. Admittedly, Starbuck didn't know what kind of situation he'd walked into, but regardless it was coming to an end now. "You need to learn to pick on someone your _own_ size, pal."

A cruel scowl settled on the goon's features, and he released the woman, straightening up to his full height, which was a hand's breadth over and above Starbuck. Size-wise they weren't exactly evenly matched, and the bruiser smiled, taking obvious pleasure in that, especially in the close quarters. He flipped his cloak back over one shoulder, revealing a burly frame, out-bulking the Viper pilot by an easy thirty or forty kilons. Then he looked Starbuck over derisively, settling into a professional Hasher's stance. He frowned, pulling at the clasp at his neck as his gaze briefly settled on the warrior's weapon.

"_Or_ . . . in the absence of any more genetically mutated lummoxes," Starbuck added, resting his hand suggestively on the butt of his laser, "you _could_ pick on me."

"This is none of your affair, Warrior," the oaf replied, setting his jaw determinedly.

"That's where you're wrong," Starbuck replied, dropping the smile. His training had taught him that using verbal skills could assuage a potentially hostile situation, but it occurred to him that he'd never really excelled at those techniques. It was probably why they'd made him a pilot. "Seems to me you're looking for my wife, Honour; that makes it my affair."

The goon hesitated for a moment, taken aback.

"You obviously don't know who you're dealing with," Bruiser said. His gaze shifted towards the corridor for a moment as the sound of approaching footfalls grew louder with each passing micron. He suddenly looked worried.

"Then we're even," Starbuck replied. "Neither do y—"

The billowing bulk of the cloak suddenly filled the space between them as the lummox roared aloud, charging. The woman screamed. Under normal circumstances, Starbuck would have met an opponent head on; however, it was a good general guideline to never run face first into a landram. Instead, he ducked to his right, using the cover of the cape to his advantage. Ducking low, he made himself less accessible as a target, and then pivoted sharply around, using his hands on the deck to keep his balance before kicking out.

The big man tripped over Starbuck's boot, briefly tumbling to the deck in a jumble of cloth and limbs, before nimbly finding his feet again. Bruiser again assumed a Hasher's pose, hunched over, arms extended, meaty hands outstretched like claws, aching to grab a piece of the agile warrior. So much for the old proverb "the bigger they come, the harder they fall".

"Hold it or I'll shoot!" Starbuck barked, pulling his laser, hoping like Hades he wouldn't have to use it. Embroiled in a war against Cylons, he'd been conditioned to believe that _every_ human life was sacred. If he used the stun setting, he'd probably knock out all three of them in the tiny space, not to mention whoever else was racing down the corridor this very centon. An image of those six little kids came to mind, and he started to change the setting to "kill", not wanting to inadvertently hurt any innocents in adjoining areas that he couldn't see.

That was when he learned that Bruiser could fly. The big man launched himself at Starbuck with surprising speed and agility, tackling him. His weapon crushed between them, Starbuck careened backwards through the voluminous curtain of fabric, expecting to be slammed against the wall. Instead, his shoulders brushed through some kind of opening, before he pitched further downward, Bruiser on top of him. They plummeted downward into darkness.

"_Oh fraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . ._"


	24. Chapter 24

Apollo burst into the tiny living space, laser drawn, to see only one occupant: the woman he'd heard screaming. A trail of brightly coloured fabric was disappearing down some kind of a chute in the bulkhead, the loud drawn out expletive accompanying it sounding further and further away with every passing milli-centon. Somehow Starbuck or Jephte or maybe both had ended up either falling or diving down this old cargo chute. The remnant of some kind of inadequate cover jutted out of the opening, apparently a deterrent to small children, but no hindrance to the full weight of an adult male or two. The captain stumbled to a halt, turning towards the woman.

"What happened? Who went down there?" Apollo demanded as Boomer flew into the room behind him.

"Two men!" she replied, stifling a sob as she sat with her back against the wall, curled up into a ball in the corner of the room. Her hair was disheveled, tears poured down her cheeks. "One a warrior . . . the other . . ." She broke off, coughing. "The . . . _the other one tried to kill me_!" she shrieked hysterically.

"Jephte!" Boomer exclaimed.

The next thing Apollo knew, the lieutenant was diving towards the chute, apparently intent on following the serial killer. It took him aback. Generally, Boomer was the epitome of common sense. Impulsive and reckless were characteristics one more usually associated with _Starbuck_.

"_Boomer_!" Apollo leapt forward, tackling Boomer around the waist, and hauling him to the deck before his hips and legs followed the rest of him into the chute. "Are you _crazy_? We don't know if it's safe! We're on the _eighteenth_ deck!" It was still a long way to the keel.

"Right," was the succinct reply, with a slight echo.

Apollo could feel the tension leave Boomer's body, which he hoped signalled the return of sanity. He grabbed his friend by the belt, pulling hard to haul him bodily back to safety before climbing off of him.

Boomer rolled over, looking at the captain, chagrined. "That was stupid. Sorry." Even so he cast a longing look back down at the chute. "I guess I lost my head . . . but the idea of Starbuck down there with _him_ . . ."

"Starbuck can take care of himself, Boomer," Apollo reassured him.

Boomer raised his eyebrows incredulously. "_Our_ Starbuck?"

Yeah, it would have been funny if their buddy had been there with them, instead of plummeting through an archaic and obsolete duct system with a killer for company.

"The Arian Freighter is an old break bulk cargo ship, Boomer. It was about a day away from becoming scrap when the Destruction necessitated its return to service," Apollo said, squatting down at the chute entrance and running a hand over the surface. It came away covered in grime, cobwebs, and rat mong, which, despite the state of his hand hygiene, was actually a relief. At least there was no sign of blood or injury. Yet. "These old chutes used to be utilized for transporting storage barrels or crates hundreds of yahrens ago when most small cargo was still moved manually on Aries. Lord knows what kind of shape they're in, Boomer."

"I'll comm Captain Kamda and find out," Boomer said, back to his old self again. "He can check the schematics and tell us where it comes out." He glanced at the woman. "Your attacker. Did he have any weapons?"

She shook her head, her features pinched. He had just used his powerful hands. Relatively, it was good news, although they both knew that Jephte wasn't exactly known for his deftness with a laser. The killer excelled at overpowering his victims and then making them disappear.

Apollo clapped a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder before regaining his feet. He could hear footfalls coming down the corridor. Apparently, their back-up had arrived, like them just a little too late. He turned to face the woman again. "Are you Ondine?"

Wide-eyed, she nodded, blinking furiously through her tears.

"I'm Captain Apollo from the _Galactica_. This is Lieutenant Boomer. We need to ask you a few more questions," he told her gently.

"I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt!" She cracked like an ovum under the weight of his cunning interrogational technique. "It was just a few extra cubits to help with the kids, I swear! I'll do whatever you ask! I promise!"

xxxxx

Starbuck plunged downward through the darkness into the unknown, Bruiser clinging to him like an Arian Constrictor. Speeding out of control through the pitch black, it was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. Then again, probably only an adrenaline junkie or Viper pilot would think so. Unexpectedly, the duct disappeared beneath them and they started free-falling, tumbling head over heels through the air. Until . . .

_Whomp_! Starbuck hit the ground, slammed flat on his back on the deck.

_Whomp!_ Then he was squashed like a mushie.

Dazed and aching all over, it took Starbuck a moment to realize that something was wrong, terribly wrong. As much as he tried to draw a breath, he couldn't! His mouth gaped open, longing for air that just wasn't there. Micron by micron, his chest tightened painfully until it felt like there was a vise around it, denying him critical oxygen. His chest heaved once, twice, thrice to no avail. He broke out in a cold sweat of dread, his lungs refusing to function.

Crushed alive by the blackness, tortured sounds of his desperate choking filled his ears for what seemed like an eternity, as panic enveloped him. Instinctively he tried to claw at his throat, but he couldn't budge his arm. He couldn't move! He couldn't breathe! His head began to swim as his vision greyed at the edges. Oblivion beckoned . . . but as usual Starbuck was waiting for a better offer . . .

Suddenly an enormous weight shifted off of him, about the same time that Starbuck managed to squeeze an agonized wheeze past his windpipe. He was forcibly rolled onto his side, his arm twisted violently behind his back to immobilize him. Helpless to resist, he drew a ragged rasping breath into starved lungs, sounding like a rusty ventilator on its last power cell. Then a rough hand started frisking him, never letting up on the pressure on his arm.

Dimly, it occurred to him that Bruiser was probably searching for his weapon. After all, he'd been holding one topside. . . . but dang if Starbuck could remember where the heck it had gone. He'd lost his laser somewhere between falling down the chute, crashing into the deck, and Bruiser flattening him. To make matters worse—if that was indeed possible—it was as dark as a crypt down there. He couldn't see a thing, but he could _hear_ a telltale scurrying and squeaking close by. The air was damp and a fetid smell filled his senses . . .

"Now listen up," Bruiser growled into his ear, his voice a deep baritone, "because I'm only going to say this once . . ."

xxxxx

"But that's not possible," Proctor shook his head at his fellow officer to emphasize his words over her preliminary report on Jephte's victims in the Reclamation Centre on the Mastodon Freighter. "There should be_ some_ remains left. Some calcified bone fragments, at the very least." He paused to think it over, wondering if the chemical content of the vat was capable of completely disintegrating two human beings. "Shouldn't there?"

"According to the techs, yes," Saryn replied, rechecking her datapad. "Remember, that stage of the treatment is concentrated on accelerating the breakdown of organic waste. We had every expectation that we'd find remains of the woman and baby."

"But we didn't."

"Uh uh. Something smells here, Sir . . . no pun intended."

"No bloody kidding!" Proctor exclaimed. "So our nice tidy theory about Hope being Jephte's eleventh victim doesn't hold water . . ."

Saryn shook her head. "Nope. Not only that, I took the liberty of further checking out the previous incident on the Foundry Ship. It was exactly the same modus operandi, as you know, the only difference being that two people either jumping or being thrown into molten metal, depending on the scenario, could completely eradicate any evidence of human remains. Under those expectations, apparently we didn't even check. However . . . thermal monitors on the Foundry Ship should have detected a temperature variance, however slight, at the time of the alleged deaths."

Proctor raised his eyebrows at the young woman in surprise. "And?"

"There was no recorded temperature variation, sir. Plus, looking back I noticed that the chem-sensors showed no sign of anything else. No organic gases, nothing you'd expect from an incinerated body."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning our nice tidy theory about _Faith_ being Jephte's _tenth_ victim is also leaking badly."

"Frack!" Proctor exploded. It had all fallen in place so perfectly: Honour's questionable background check, the tie in with Faith and Honour, the missing link of Jephte. His Security Force had been poised to bring in the most despised domestic killer of their time. Was he so anxious to catch a serial killer that he was willing to see villains where there were only ghosts? "Then this manhunt we've just launched . . ."

"Has to be stopped, sir," Saryn replied. "Or at the very least, the warriors and crew on the Arian Freighter need to know that whoever this guy is, that they're most likely _not_ after Jephte. All we can _legally_ do is bring that man in and question him for impersonating a Family Services Worker."

Proctor nodded. "Good work, Saryn. I'll deal with the situation on the Arian Freighter. I want you to go speak with Honour again. Console her that Hope's demise appears to be a hoax. I'll be curious to hear about her reaction."

The young officer looked both surprised and pleased. "On my way, sir! Thank you, sir!"

Proctor reached for his comm unit as she turned to go. He had to stop the turn of events he had naively set in motion. Foremost in his mind was a disturbing image of one of the warriors or crewmen on the Arian Freighter prematurely shooting this mystery man, thinking they were ultimately performing a service for the Colonial Nation. Foremost on his _conscience_ was that he would be responsible.


	25. Chapter 25

"So Honour has never actually lived here on the Arian Freighter?" Apollo confirmed with Ondine. "She only paid you to say she did at the space dock on Aries?"

"Yes, Captain. I registered her for census myself," Ondine said, rubbing her crossed arms self-consciously. "She was never here."

"You impersonated her?"

"Yes."

Now that she mentioned it, he could see some definite similarities in their appearances. They were the same height, had the same eye and hair color, the same build, all the physical data that would be integrated into Fleet Records.

Apollo inclined his head, waiting for her to fill the silence that had fallen between them.

"Well, you see I . . . I just put a kerchief on my head and took the neighbour's youngest along," she said quietly, her story gathering momentum along with her confidence. "Made sure I had a different agent than I did when I registered as myself. Honour told me how to go about it. Her cubits got us extra rations for over two sectars. I don't regret it. Not for a single micron." Then she frowned, slowly putting a clenched fist to her mouth. "Or at least I didn't until _he_ showed up here looking for her . . . I thought I was a goner, Captain. He was a raving lunatic! I can't believe it was Jephte in the flesh!"

_Jephte in the flesh_. Obviously, she'd heard Boomer use the name when they arrived. Apollo groaned internally at the thought of that rumour flying around the Fleet. Hopefully, they would find the serial killer in short order, putting an end to any potential hysteria that hadn't taken root yet.

"What ship _did_ Honour register on, Ondine? Where was she living if not here?" Apollo asked.

"I don't know. I never saw her again, Captain."

"But you continued to lie for her. After spending about two centars with her on Aries, she not only talked you into making a fraudulent declaration once you arrived, but she convinced you to keep misleading officials," Apollo said incredulously, paraphrasing what she'd told him earlier. "Why?"

"You won't like it," she warned him.

"Tell me anyway."

"While we were waiting to see if we'd even get off Aries, we talked some, me and Honour. People do when they think they might die, you know. Anyhow, Honour told me her husband was abusive. She'd been trying to avoid him since before the Destruction. The mere idea of joining the Fleet, knowing he would probably be there too, scared her to death. I know he's a friend of yours, but . . ."

"_Abusive_?" Apollo almost choked, feeling like he'd been blindsided by a landram. "_Starbuck_?"

"She never told me his name. Just said she was afraid he'd hurt the child when he got tired of hurting _her_. Said she'd die before she let that happen," she said indignantly. "I'm a mother; I understood. Like she said, we single mothers need to stick together. If we don't watch out for each other, nobody else will. That's the truth. Imagine having an abusive husband as well as a serial killer after you! That poor woman! She needs every friend she has!"

"Are you trying to tell me that you think that the decorated Colonial Warrior who just saved _you_, a complete stranger, from a 'raving lunatic' would actually abuse his wife and infant daughter?" Apollo challenged her misconceptions, while trying to keep a lid on his anger. "Do you_ really_ believe that?"

"I suppose when you put it that way it does kind of seem out of character," she replied uncertainly.

"This other man . . ." Apollo pressed.

"Jephte," she supplied.

"We're not entirely sure of his identity, Ondine," Apollo corrected her.

"I heard your lieutenant call him Jephte," she pointed out.

"That's just a remote possibility," Apollo lied. "Did you get any indication of _why_ he was looking for Honour or what his relationship to her might have been?"

"Executioner?" she replied, looking at him as though he was a bit slow. "You know, Honour, one of the original twelve daughters of Jephte. Right?"

He took a slow, deep breath. "Yes, I . . ."

"Apollo!" Boomer interrupted, poking his head back in from the corridor where he'd been using the nearest comm unit. "The chute comes out in a sealed compartment on Deck Twenty-Five, Psi Section, close to the old service turbo lift. The last five metrons of that chute was taken for scrap a while back. It's a straight drop to the bottom! Captain Kamda said he has a team on the way already!"

"_What_? Boomer, they were supposed to wait for us!" Apollo replied.

"These guys are frothing at the mouth at the idea of getting Jephte, Apollo. I think we have a seventy-fourth century lynch mob on our hands!"

"Frack! And Starbuck's right in the middle of it. Let's go!"

xxxxx

"_No luck, Chief Proctor, they must be out of range. Either that or they're in the ladderwell, already on their way down to Deck Twenty-Five_," Captain Kamda reported from the bridge of the Arian Freighter. "_Regardless, there's nothing I can do_."

"Captain Kamda, if you don't find some way of communicating with Captain Apollo and your crew, I don't like to think about what might happen when a group of vengeful men tear open that access hatch, expecting to find Jephte, but instead find two men in the wrong place at the wrong time!" Proctor berated him, getting the sense that the Arian Freighter captain didn't want to cooperate. "If you're obstructing justice, Kamda . . ."

"_Hardly! You told me we were after that shard-born microphallus, Jephte_!"

"Uh . . . our conclusions may have been erroneous," Proctor admitted, looking up Kamda in the Fleet Records, inputting his access code. "I _need_ to talk to Captain Apollo!"

"_That's unfortunate, Proctor. Listen up, this is a corroded old bucket rescued from the scrapyard, not a battlestar. What you need to understand is that outside of the bridge, reliable communications are largely achieved by tapping the next guy on his shoulder_. _I believe we're due for our communications upgrade sometime next deca-yahren_. _This particular Colonial demographic is low on the Council's priority list_."

"This isn't funny, Captain!" Proctor exclaimed, as data finally rolled across his screen.

"_No, but you have to keep things in perspective, Proctor. After losing billions back home, I suppose one more poor soul doesn't make that much difference. I wouldn't worry about the warrior, Proctor. Even with their rampant amentia, my jobbernowls can still recognize a uniform. They'll know which man is which._" The levity in his tone was inappropriate to his station. "_You know, you could probably salvage the situation by just reporting that the man they lynch is Jephte, whether he is or not. Not only would it make my passengers feel like I'm looking out for them, but it would make Colonial Security look good . . . for a change_."

"I don't operate that way, Kamda," Proctor said, looking over the man's professional history.

"_That's because you're just another cog in the wheel, Proctor. I'm sure Sire Anton and his fellow Council members would see my logic_. _They're always looking for a way to turn bitter-root into nectar for the IFB._"

"Dear Lord, can you hear yourself, man! Have you lost your sanity?" Proctor accused him, starting to look through his personal history.

"_I've found it_. _Do you know how many of my men volunteered for this based on the belief that they were finally ferreting out that fimicolous beast, Jephte_? _I sent revenge, retribution and hatred down there, blood on their minds!"_

"You had no right . . .!" Proctor exclaimed, the words dying a death on his lips as he read Captain Kamda's deceased daughter's name. _Charity_ . . . Jephte's eighth victim. He closed his eyes in despair.

"_I had every right_!" Kamda exploded. "_This is my ship, Proctor! My realm! I am its lord and master; its people are under my charge! They swear fealty to me; I swear to protect them! In the name of God and in the memory of my daughter, I will not let justice go undone one more __day!"_

xxxxx

"_There's no way out_!" Bruiser yelled, his rising panic getting the better of him, as he stumbled around blindly in the dark, desperately searching for egress. "_Hades Hole! I have to get out of here_!"

Sitting mutely on the deck, Starbuck's head was still reeling from what Bruiser had revealed. It was so . . . _completely_ bizarre that it could only be yet one more chapter to be added to his colourful life's story. In reflection, it wouldn't be a bad follow-up to kissing three beautiful clones or ultimately forging allegiances with Borays that had been trying to skewer him only centars before. Yeah, the way things were going, next he'd be riding unicorns . . .

"_We're trapped_!" Bruiser hollered, his fists pummelling solid metal. "Oh man, this is it!"

"Shut up!" Starbuck snapped, trying to think.

They'd both heard the loud clapping of footfalls coming down the corridor just before they'd inadvertently fallen down the old cargo chute, losing Starbuck's weapon somewhere along the way down. As he'd lain there on the deck forced to listen, Bruiser's story had made an inordinate kind of sense, and the incredible relief the warrior had felt at its conclusion had only been diminished by his rising anxiety when he'd realized where that now left him.

Single. Unattached. Free.

And at the bottom of a lightless shaft, with unknown aggressors bearing down on him.

Currently, the big man's behaviour was screaming that Bruiser really thought that at any moment a group of misled vigilantes would be bursting through the sealed hatch, murder in their eyes, lasers blazing. Instinctively, Starbuck knew the man was telling the truth. The lieutenant tried to get past his astonishment and forced himself to think rationally.

"Okay, we've got four walls, two ways out, one too high to reach, the other locked from the outside," Starbuck said aloud. "Anything else?"

"Plus it's pitch black, we can't see in front of our faces, a_nd_ you lost your weapon!" Bruiser added from a few metrons away. "There's nothing here! Not even scrap to use as a weapon!"

"I suppose throwing barge rats at them when they come in the hatch is out of the question?" Starbuck said, instilling a little levity.

"Is that _supposed_ to be funny?" Bruiser replied flatly.

"Well, in case you haven't noticed, we don't have a lot of options, Bruiser," Starbuck replied. "You got any bright ideas?"

"Horace."

"Huh?"

"My name is Horace. If we're going to die here, you might as well know that."

"I'll keep that in mind if I'm still around to write your epithet," said Starbuck.

"Don't count on that. If she can take out two of us at once, then . . ."

"We're_ not_ going to die," Starbuck exclaimed, his voice raised angrily. His destiny was to die in a Viper defending the Colonial Nation, not as a result of a misunderstanding. They needed to do something unconventional. Unexpected. But what?

"Well, maybe _you're_ not, but I am. I suppose even boneheads can tell a Colonial Warrior from a scapegoat . . . I can't believe she outsmarted me! Even _knowing_ it was coming . . ."

_That was it . . ._

"Hmm, Horace . . . I think I have an idea, but you're probably not going to like it." Yeah, it was crazier than negotiating with Nogow to become the Marshall of Serenity. Still, it might just work. It certainly had the element of surprise going for it . . .

"Try me."

xxxxx

"Commander, we have a situation evolving on the Arian Freighter," Colonel Tigh reported, Proctor still on the comm. Quickly, the colonel briefed Adama on the unfolding events that had started with a background check on Honour and had somehow escalated into a rage driven manhunt for a serial killer that likely no longer existed, Apollo, Starbuck and Boomer right in the middle of it.

"_Starbuck_," Adama murmured quietly. "How does he manage to . . .?" he curtailed his remarks, turning to the comm unit, an image of Chief Proctor displayed there. "How far is Colonial Security from the scene, Proctor?"

"_There's a shuttle landing on the Freighter now, Commander, but as I said to Colonel Tigh, I had been depending on Captain Kamda's cooperation, not his defiance and obstruction of justice according to Colonial Law. We'll need back up, because evidently Kamda thinks he's above our laws. Logistically, we have two situations: the immediate one that Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer are walking into, and then later when we take Kamda into custody. I doubt he'll come easily after listening to his earlier ravings. This could blow up into a full scale standoff, us against Kamda's crew._"

"Let's hope you're wrong about that," Adama said, trying to find the empathy to understand how a father would feel after suffering the loss of his child to a killer. It was an eye for an eye. Would revenge ease Kamda's paternal guilt over not being there to protect his daughter from Jephte? Would feeling he had avenged his daughter's death be enough to bring him back to some semblance of sanity before the situation escalated further? Could one man's hatred sustain his crew into prolonged chaos or would they come to their senses before termination entered into the equation? He prayed that Apollo and Boomer could somehow intervene before it came to that. "Tigh, assign Red Squadron . . ."

"Yes, sir!"

xxxxx

"Isn't there something in the manual about _not_ chasing angry mobs?" Boomer hollered down the ladderwell to Apollo, hearing the increasingly raucous and angry sounds of Kamda's men below them.

They had tried reasoning with the crewmen briefly, at least the ones who had bothered to wait for them. However, the Arians seemed to have lost all perspective on the fact that they were there to enact Colonial justice, if indeed they ever had any to begin with. Arming themselves with makeshift bludgeons, they were consumed with rage, acting like barbarians, Hades-bent on bringing back the death penalty . . . without tribunal. Was it some kind of deranged attempt to exert control over a situation where they could command the outcome, unlike the Destruction? Was it some kind of psychological displacement? Was the man identified as Jephte about to pay for Baltar's crimes and the mistakes of a foolish Quorum of Twelve?

Apollo and Boomer had to stop that from happening!

"Technically, I don't think a dozen men qualify as a mob, Boomer!" Apollo shouted back up, taking the rungs two at a time.

"Have I ever told you how much I _hate_ technicalities?"

"Then you might want to seriously consider leaving the Colonial Service!" Apollo rejoined.

"I'm seriously considering it _now_!"

"Tell that to Starbuck!"

"Fine!" Boomer yelled back after a micron. "We save Starbuck first, _then_ I'll quit the Service!"

xxxxx

Saryn pressed the entry chime on Honour's temporary quarters a final time, finally keying in the override code. The door slid open and she paused there at the threshold, listening. It was silent.

"Hello? Anybody here?" she called out, slowly stepping inside.

It took her a moment to recover from the opulence, a stark contrast to the rest of the Battlestar. It was like walking into another universe, and it seemed somehow vulgar that this kind of luxury was commonplace for the highborn. It took her a moment to get over her indignation and start looking around with her professional mask in place. What struck her most was that not a thing was out of place. It looked as if no one had been there, most certainly not a one yahren old tot and her mother.

It took her only a few centons to verify what she had suspected. She did one final sweep before crossing to the telecom.

"Sir? This is Saryn. Honour's gone."

xxxxx

"_Don't open that hatch_!" Apollo hollered on the run, the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ears, as his boots pounded the deck as fast as his feet could carry him. "_That's an order!_"

"_Hold it_!" Boomer also yelled, hitting the deck from the ladderwell just a micron behind the captain.

At a glance, there had to be approximately fifteen people amassing about fifty metrons away. The mob looked ugly, frenzied by their own hatred and fear, finding courage in numbers and ignorance as they presumably struggled to open the huge, grungy old cargo hatch. At this distance, Apollo could only hope that the archaic portal on this damp lower deck would be rusted shut, barring them from Starbuck and "Jephte", and preventing impending disaster. However, that still left his good buddy sealed in a compartment with a potential serial killer. Neither scenario looked especially good for Starbuck.

A loud _clunk_ and drawn out _squeak_ signalled an opening hatch. There was a flickering of the overhead illuminators, and then bright light streamed out from within the compartment, along with a tide of barge rats. The crewmen weren't daunted.

"_Halt_!" Apollo demanded, pulling his weapon and redoubling his efforts. Thigh muscles burning, he poured on the speed, hearing a guttural cry of despair from Boomer behind him. Using stun, they would open fire on adult civilians _only_ as a last resort. "_Cease and desist_! _That's an order_!"

Instead, the cacophony momentarily peaked as the riotous pack surged forward towards the access. Then the clamour abruptly died down, and a few began backing off, uncertainly lowering makeshift weapons they had acquired as they first hesitated and then retreated.

"What in _Hades Hole_ . . .?" someone exclaimed.

"_Oh frack_! Now wait a centon! I thought that . . ."

"We _all_ did!"

There was confusion. Unease. It didn't bode well. Overall, Apollo had the distinct idea that whatever had deterred them had far more to do with what they'd found inside, rather than the warriors bearing down on them, weapons drawn.

An icy chill swept over him.

"Drop your weapons!" Apollo choked out as he arrived at the scene, dreading what he would find within.

The crewmen looked at him and Boomer as though they were happy for the distraction. They dropped the bludgeons they carried, raising their hands innocuously and backing away obediently, leaving room for their equally bewildered compatriots to exit the cargo compartment.

"Break it up!" Boomer ordered them, disbanding the crowd before they could regroup. He glanced wearily at the open hatch.

"I didn't sign on for this," a crewman muttered, escaping the compartment, "whatever it is."

"Apollo . . ." Boomer murmured in anxiety.

"Back me up," Apollo ordered.

"Right."

Apollo took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the worst. Armed, he brushed past the dispelling men, squinting against the brightness of the industrial lighting coming from within the compartment.

He blinked as his sight adjusted, then his eyebrows shot upward in abject shock. "_Starbuck_?" He let out a breath of relief as he cried over his shoulder. "He's okay, Boomer!"

"Apollo!" a relieved sounding Starbuck cried out. "Thought you'd never get here, buddy! That was a little too close for comfort. You just might be losing your touch, Captain. "

Apollo slowly lowered his weapon, smiling in disbelief. "And you're losing you _mind, _Lieutenant . . . not to mention. . ."

"I_ don't_ believe it," Boomer interjected over Apollo's shoulder as he beheld the sight before him.

"_What_?" Starbuck asked innocently.

His face smudged with grime, the brash lieutenant grinned at them, standing akimbo exuding his usual self-assurance and nonchalance . . . despite the fact that both he and "Jephte" were clad in nothing but their briefs. The mob had apparently been dumbfounded upon finding two very vulnerable and near-naked men, instead of a frothing, crazed killer and a Colonial Warrior doing battle. It had stopped them in their tracks, effectively throwing cold water on fiery emotions. Malignant intent and rage had impotently dissolved into confusion and embarrassment, just long enough for Apollo and Boomer to arrive and intervene.

"You're out of uniform, Lieutenant," Apollo couldn't help but rib him, loosely holding his weapon at his side. There wasn't the least amount of avarice directed at "Jephte" from Starbuck. It gave him the distinct impression that he was missing something.

"Well, this is hardly the Officers' Ball," Starbuck returned with a shrug.

"Which raises the question," Apollo returned, "what_ is_ it exactly?"


	26. Chapter 26

Cassiopeia slipped her ultrasonic scanner in her pocket, making her way through the crowd gathered in the makeshift reception room on the Calibri Freighter. She was overdue for this java break, but that wasn't anything new for a Colonial med tech, her diet plan consisting of "too much to do, no time to eat". As she headed for the commissary, it occurred to her that if she hadn't volunteered for this extra duty that she would have been meeting Starbuck about now. However, his sudden entanglement with _that woman_ had brought their romantic liaison to a grinding halt. She tried not to dwell on it; after all, Starbuck had about as much experience as_ she _did with monogamous relationships. Then again, it was one of the things that endeared him to her; they both seemed to be starting out on even ground, neither of them having unreasonable expectations of the other. In a life filled with uncertainty, it had been nice to meet a man willing to take each day as it came, especially one who came in such a handsome package.

Cassie sighed, pushing her hair back from her face. She'd recognized sincere regret when Starbuck had said his goodbyes. There had been true vulnerability in him that had resonated with her, allowing her socialator training to overcome her more female instinct to slap him across the face. It had taken all of her self-control to not proceed on her own, performing genetic tests on the child to put her own scepticism to rest. Furthermore, it had required far more effort than she cared to admit to not blurt out her suspicions about Honour, even as that little voice in the back of her mind screamed out that there was more to woman than met the eye.

She'd seen Honour's type before: scheming, malicious, two-faced. The way that Honour manipulated a situation led the med tech to believe that at some point she had had some socialator's training. Cassie doubted that Honour had completed her training, making it to convocation. Somewhere along the line one of their esteemed pedagogues would have realized that while Honour certainly had the intelligence to become a socialator, that she lacked the simple heart that was necessary for the traditional and respected designation.

All the same, if she had mentioned any of this to Starbuck or anybody else for that matter, it would have come across as jealousy. It was a no win situation, and Cassie had grace enough to cede the first round to Honour. The next round, well that would be a different matter . . .

_So much for not dwelling on this, Cassiopeia . . . _

Angry at herself for allowing her mind to wander where it would, she abruptly rounded a corner, instantly regretting it as she stumbled into a young man carrying a tot.

"Oops, sorry!" Cassie said, her hands extended to soften the impact. Controlling her shock, she recognized Starbuck's "wife" and "child", more from a visceral reaction than from any obvious visual clues.

Honour's hair was shorn so close to her head that she looked like a young teen carrying his sibling. Oversized and tattered pants and tunic completed the transformation, a tightly cinched belt hinting at malnutrition. Smudges of dirt disguised a face that could be considered "too pretty" to be male. Shadows of what had to be grease were smeared on the jaw line, giving an illusion of facial hair. Yahrens of socialator training kicked in, and Cassie bent down, recovering the pack of belongings that Honour had dropped when they'd collided. She paused only briefly in indecision before taking the initiative, knowing she wouldn't regret it.

"S'okay," the imposter replied, her voice muffled and lowered in tone as the baby fussed in her arms. "No harm done, lady."

Cassie stood back up, handing the "young man" the pack. She was careful to cover any trace of recognition as she glanced at her chrono. "There's a clinic today. Maybe you should bring the little one. Your sister?"

"Yeah. Maybe." The reply was noncommittal, as "he" took the pack and brushed past her.

Cassie chewed her lip a moment in thought as she turned towards the commissary. Something had to have happened, but what? Had the second round of this rivalry presented itself so soon? The question was what should she do about it?


	27. Chapter 27

"The woman that you all know as Honour, _I_ first met and sealed with just over five yahrens ago in Prior's Clovelly, a sleepy little village on Piscon where I was a commercial piscator," Horace told those gathered in Commander Adama's office. The big man stood in front of the viewport, his attention diverted between the starscape and those present. "I came from a relatively small community, insular and very traditional. I have to say that she was the most exciting woman I'd ever met. Beautiful, witty, sexy, smart . . . her persona back then was a lot different than it is now, probably a lot closer to the real woman, although she still _professed_ to be a devout Kobollian."

"Evidently, going to Temple doesn't make you a Kobollian anymore than sitting in a launch bay makes you a Viper," Starbuck inserted, abruptly cutting off the bitter stream of words as all eyes turned his way. Along with a sense of relief that he was once again free, came a sharp sting reminding him that he had been set up, not once but twice, both times falling for Honour's story naively. He still couldn't believe that a woman could be so manipulative and underhanded, her motivation completely monetary, and more often than not deadly. He raked a hand through his hair in agitation, feeling as though he had narrowly escaped a fate he had been totally unaware of. Apparently, his scanners were down. It was unsettling to realize how easily he'd been duped. "Sorry . . . I'm done now."

"Don't be sorry," Horace said in a strained voice. "I know just how you feel, Lieutenant. I loved her once too."

"Well . . . I, uh . . ." Starbuck stuttered uncomfortably. Since that morning he had run through a gamut of emotions, swinging from one extreme to another. At one point, he'd had every expectation that he, Honour and Tara would join the ranks of ideal Colonial families, at another, he'd wanted to throw in the towel and just try to be a decent part-time father. Yeah, somehow he had the idea that Horace had a little more emotional investment in _his_ relationship with Honour.

Adama exchanged a look with Tigh before sitting down wearily in his chair. "Her _persona_, you said, Horace?" His voice was hoarse and he cleared it, while rubbing the back of his neck.

"Belle—her real name, or at least the one that I know best—changes identities like most women change their minds," Horace replied, sitting down on the longseat beneath the viewport, and leaning forward, elbows on thighs. "She moves from one relationship to the next, exclusively picking men with high risk jobs that are either orphaned or have no close family. Then she seals with them, and finally profits from their survival benefits and/or estates when they die. In more than one instance I suspect she helped them on their way to the Hereafter."

Adama let out a breath of surprise. "That . . . that gentle, nurturing, God-fearing . . ."

"She-devil," Horace replied flatly. "She uses my daughter as a smokescreen, hiding behind her supposed maternal obligations whenever the going gets tough . . ."

"_Your_ daughter?" Apollo stated with a glance at Starbuck. His friend was studiously studying the floor.

"Not Starbuck's," Tigh said.

Starbuck glanced at the colonel briefly, remembering how the officer had suggested getting a paternity test. Tigh met his gaze for a micron, a strange look of empathy on his usually stern features before he returned his attention to the former piscator.

"No, Colonel. She's mine," Horace reaffirmed. "I'm sure of it."

"But Tara is only a _yahren_ old," Boomer said. "You said you knew her several yahrens ago."

Horace sighed. "Just like Starbuck at Hoedus, I also survived my first encounter with Belle, unbeknownst to her at the time. I was lost at sea during a storm, swept overboard when my personal safety equipment failed." He frowned, looking over at Starbuck. "Most people don't know this, but piscators were once ranked as having the most dangerous civilian designation in the Colonies, until advanced safety equipment designs changed that. I never considered it at the time, but I have a sneaking suspicion that if I could go back and check my gear, I'd find it had been tampered with."

"That's premeditated termination, isn't it?" Boomer asked.

"Only if you can prove it," Horace replied. "Regardless, not only did my safety line break that day, but my electronic tracking system failed. Thankfully, the Lords were watching over me, but then they've favoured me most of my life, and believe me, I've tested their generosity."

"Something else you and Starbuck have in common," Adama added with a fond smile at the young lieutenant. "Go on, Horace."

"I ended up washing up on an islet off the usual shipping lanes. It took over two sectars before I finally made it home. That's when I found out that not only had Belle left, but she'd dissolved all my assets, leaving me destitute."

"In two sectars? That was quick," Tigh said.

"She was very efficient," Horace said. "As I said, she'd done it before."

"Were you suspicious?" Tigh asked.

"Not at the time," he replied. "In fact I was beside myself with worry for her wellbeing. I heard from friends that Belle was devastated, that she claimed that wherever she looked she saw _me_. Finally, she left, deciding she was better to make a new start. My best friend said she was going to contact him, so they could stay in touch, but she never did. I had no way to find her, and my funds were limited so I couldn't hire an investigator. Meanwhile, her trail grew cold. I stayed in Prior's Clovelly hoping that somehow, some_way_ she'd return. She didn't."

"Then you met her again?" Tigh asked.

"Almost three yahrens later." Horace nodded. "The Agro Ministry had just finished another Forced Grow Cycle in the Craggy Forest Reserve in the Kootenay Region, and it was time to harvest. I'd been working with the company on and off for over eight yahren, so they hired me as a crew boss during our usual piscator typhoon season and sent me across planet."

"You're a lumberman too?" Boomer asked.

"Piscators could make a living yahren-round if they were willing to relocate from planet to planet, but I was a Piscon Boy, born and bred. Most of us diehards had another designation during the typhoon season and conservation periods, travelling inland to work camps in the forest or agro industries. Anyhow, our luck turned one day and we lost a greenhorn named Mufferaw in a fluke accident. The guys said his mind wasn't on his job, which made me wonder what the heck he was doing out there to begin with. It was the first time I'd ever lost a man on the job, so I made a special trip in to Ominica on the Forestry Transport to tell his new bride. It just didn't seem right to do it over the telecom."

"His bride was Honour?" Boomer saw it coming.

"Belle," Horace corrected him. "But she went by Bellissa, saying it was actually her mother's proper name. I was over the Lillium Moons with joy when she opened the door, but of course, she was struck dumb that I was standing there in the flesh. Well, it made sense to me at the time. I'd be shocked too if my dead spouse came back from a watery grave to inform me my latest was also dead, killed in an accident. My heart went out to her in her grief; she seemed so fragile, so delicate."

"Sounds familiar," Starbuck commented, shifting from foot to foot.

"I'm sure it does. To make a long story short, we slowly rekindled our relationship, which isn't an easy thing when a lumberman is away in camp for two sectars at a time. We rebuilt our lives together and she came up with this idea of starting a Lumberman's Foundation. She said that she needed something meaningful to do, something that would make a difference. Mainly, it was supposed to help workers and their families through tragedies of all kinds. I supported her, of course, and I was impressed how tirelessly she worked to organize it all. She was a smart lady, with a real head for business, and I was very proud of her. It quickly turned into a planetwide initiative in the forestry industry, Belle one of the main organizers of the fundraising. Then, on my way back to camp one day, our transport crash-landed. Luckily, no one was seriously hurt."

"Malfunction?" Tigh asked.

"Negligence," Horace replied. "The pilot had overindulged in recreational intoxicants, and some of them were still in his system. Anyhow, we'd just made it back to camp when we got word of the quake in Ominica. Not surprisingly, while we were crash landing, we hadn't noticed the tremors."

"Quake?" Tigh echoed.

"Four hundred and thirty-eight people were killed, dozens more reported missing. Massive fires broke out, and the resultant damage was devastating. Many bodies were never identified. I counted Belle's amongst them. I'd lost her twice."

"Then?"

"To make matters worse, I ran into Belle's physician a couple days later. He wished me condolences on my _family_. It turned out that she had been about six sectons pregnant and hadn't told me." He paused for a moment. "Then about a secton later I got word that the Lumberman's Foundation had been defrauded. Every last cubit in it had been electronically transferred to various accounts off-planet. As it turned out, they were totally untraceable."

"That sounds like a lot of currency," Tigh suggested. "Did you suspect her?"

"Not at all," Horace replied. "It was about two sectars after that I was approached by an investigator named Mycroft. He'd been chasing Belle for well over four yahrens by then, but she'd always managed to stay a couple identities as well as a couple crimes ahead of him. That's when I learned that the sweet, considerate and loving woman I sealed with was actually a cold-blooded sociopathic murderess and defrauder. I soon came to understand that she tried to kill me twice, the first time taking my assets in Prior's Clovelly and the second time defrauding the Lumberman's Foundation in Ominica. Mycroft had interviewed the pilot of our downed transport and he'd claimed that he'd shared a brief drink with Belle while they discussed a similar foundation idea for bush pilots. Mycroft was certain Belle had drugged the man, trying to kill me again, not caring who else went down on that transport with me. I had a sizeable survivor's benefit through the Ministry, you see."

"And the quake . . ."

"Coincidence," replied Horace, "but perfect cover because by then she'd already defrauded the Foundation and electronically transferred funds that weren't discovered missing for at least another secton. I ended up joining forces with Mycroft, determined to confront her and get custody of our child. I saw all his accumulated data, saw how easily she changed her nature to suit her mark or the circumstances, saw how heartless she really was. I still can't believe it at times. She's like two different women, one an angel, the other a monster. I couldn't understand what motivated her, why she seemed to hate men so much. Later, we pieced together that she was born of an unwed mother, her paternal father a serviceman who would have nothing to do with them, leaving them in abject poverty. Later, as a young woman, she followed in her mother's footsteps, becoming involved in a series of short-term relationships, most of them with warriors on furlon that would string along a pretty girl with empty promises just to have their way with them."

Starbuck winced. Had _he_ been one of those insincere young men unintentionally stringing along young women with empty promises? Had he ever tried out an "I love you" more to see if it fit than because he really meant it? Was Honour choosing him as her next mark a sort of divine retribution for his foolish young days during his pursuit of fast women and cheap thrills? Was there something of Honour's former servicemen-boyfriends in him that she recognized and had decided to avenge?

"There were other men before you and Starbuck, Horace?" Boomer asked.

"Other _marks_. Four that Mycroft felt confident about, another two that he wasn't certain of," Horace replied. "Three of those were also Colonial Warriors, the fourth a fire fighter; Mycroft's own son." Horace frowned grimly. "She preferred warriors, especially pilots, since the Colonial Nation was good enough to provide survivor benefits. And, of course, the Cylons were far more efficient at killing her husbands than she was."

That was it, Starbuck decided, taking two steps forward and dropping heavily into an empty seat. He'd laughed with her, flirted with her, made love to her, sealed with her . . . had entertained the thought of forging a future with this . . . crazy man-hating woman.

"You okay?" Apollo asked, squeezing his shoulder from behind.

"I feel like an angel of death just visited . . . but found me marginally lacking for membership in the Great Hereafter," Starbuck replied quietly.

"Sorry, Lieutenant," Horace said, abashed. "This is a lot to absorb, I know."

"I'm just thanking my lucky stars that she was a better defrauder than she was a murderess," Starbuck replied, his attempt at humour falling flat.

"I second that," Horace replied. "If it hadn't been for your quick thinking on that freighter, I doubt I'd be standing here telling my story."

"Yeah well, when you have nothing to use to defend yourself, sometimes shocking the pogees out of your opponent is the only choice left," Starbuck said.

"When you told me to take off my clothes, you shocked the pogees out of me too," Horace replied with amusement.

"Starbuck often has that effect on people," Apollo said.

"So obviously Honour was after Starbuck's survivor benefits when she told him she was pregnant and sealed with him at Hoedus," Boomer said. "But she had every expectation he would die on that mission . . ."

"So did I," Starbuck murmured. "_Lords_ . . ."

"And since she was already sealed to Horace . . ." Apollo pointed out, still standing guard over his friend.

"Then their sealing was invalid," Adama concluded gruffly, rubbing his temples, his eyelids heavy.

"Even so, she probably managed to get survivor benefits until Starbuck came back from the Alcor Willowwacks," Apollo said. "That's probably what the hold-up was in getting you reinstated to active duty, buddy."

"But why wouldn't they let him know he had a wife out there?" Boomer asked. "That doesn't make sense."

"She had to have known someone working for the benefits department," Horace suggested. "Either that or she scammed someone into deleting that information. She might have found a sympathetic clerk . . . told her that her husband was abusive . . ."

"Now that you mention it, Honour told Ondine that Starbuck was abusive. That's one of the reasons Ondine was covering for her when she was setting up her identity on the Arian Freighter," Apollo said.

"So the two women who were reported dead, Faith and Hope . . . they were actually Honour's other identities?" Tigh asked.

"Yes," Horace replied. "Obviously, she had to have spent some time on those ships, moving from one identity to another, probably having people covering for her as well, like Ondine."

"What happened to Mycroft?" Tigh asked.

"After finally figuring out she'd been hiding with the Kobollian Order, Mycroft and I had caught up to Belle on Aries on the eve of the Destruction. For twenty-four centars she was actually in custody, genomic analysis confirming that the baby was mine. Then the Cylons attacked."

In the chaos, Belle and her child had managed to escape, but at the time Horace hadn't known if she'd survived the tragedy of the rest of the night. Mycroft had been killed, mowed down on a strafing run.

"Sounds like she has a sick sort of luck on her side," said Boomer.

"You won't hear me disagree. Belle must have had a plan in place from the time she arrived in the Fleet to set me up as Jephte, the Arian Serial Killer. She must have known I'd survived, just as surely as she knew that I would never give up trying to find her and the baby." Horace stood up, turning slightly to look out of the viewport again. "I didn't recognize the significance of the names Faith, Hope and Honour quickly enough. Instead I was just following the trail of bread crumbs she was laying down for me. My desperation to catch up to my daughter got the better of my common sense, and before I knew it I was on Captain Kamda's ship, everybody figuring I was Jephte, the most evil serial killer of modern times." Horace shook his head. The Arian captain had since then been relieved of duty, suffering from Post-Destruction Stress Syndrome. "When I finally figured it out, it was already too late. When Starbuck walked in on Ondine and me saying that Honour was his wife, I figured that she'd sent him to finish me off. Only he didn't have that same look to him that I did . . . that crazed desperate look. Well, then I heard the footfalls stampeding down the corridor and I knew if I didn't get out of there, I was a goner."

"Near enough," Boomer admitted with a glance at Apollo. "The way she manipulated us into believing that you were Jephte was . . ." He shook his head, at a loss for words as memories of his own incensed emotions returned to him.

"Diabolical?" Tigh suggested. "It was an intricately weaved. The extent of the planning she went through is . . . astounding. She picked a figure that many Colonials would have seen the death penalty resurrected for."

"God forbid we return to those barbaric ways," Adama said quietly, clearing his throat again. "Capital punishment is the most premeditated of terminations. It is revenge, not justice."

"Speaking of barbaric, that's Belle," Horace replied. "She's as shrewd as she is unscrupulous. And she still has my daughter. She's not fit to be a mother. I've seen her actually pinch my daughter to make her scream, just so she could deflect questions and control situations. We have to find them."

"We'll find them, Horace," Adama assured him. "We have security personnel briefed all over the Fleet. Every docking lounge is on the alert for a woman and child answering to their descriptions . . ."

"That might not be enough, Commander. She knows how to cover her trail. Believe me; I've been on it for yahrens. I know you all want to help, but every centon that we sit here talking, the further away she gets."

_Beep!_

Adama activated his telecom, Chief Proctor filling the screen. "Yes, Proctor?"

"Commander, we've found Honour and the baby on the Calibri Freighter!"


	28. Chapter 28

"It's not personal, Starbuck." Honour shrugged nonchalantly from behind the clear barrier of the cell doors in the _Galactica_'s brig. "It never was."

When he'd entered the brig to confront her, he almost hadn't recognized her with her recently cropped hair and boyish clothes. Gone was the vulnerable and nervous victim, replaced by an aloof and callous fugitive, flipping disinterestedly through Inter Fleet Broadcasting stations for lack of anyone to hustle. Word had it that some astute security officer had recognized Honour, slipping some kind of electronic device with a transceiver into her pack to track her later. Why he hadn't apprehended there and then, the lieutenant didn't really understand.

"How can it _not_ be personal?" Starbuck replied, shaking his head at the preposterous claim, pacing in front of her cell. He turned to face her. "You set me up like a pyramid hand. You sealed with me, or at least you made me_ think_ you did. You told me that Tara was my daughter, and the whole time you were just biding your time, waiting for me to cash out my cubits on my next patrol!"

She shrugged, unconcerned, finally looking over at him. "Oh c'mon, we had a few good times along the way. You're a fighter pilot; inevitably, you're going to die, Starbuck. Why shouldn't someone in need actually benefit from that?"

"_What_?" he choked. She hadn't denied a word of it, indeed had admitted it openly, as if it were a virtue. Lords, she'd practically berated him for holding it against her! She hadn't even asked about Tara, apparently unconcerned as to the tot's whereabouts. The child was with Family Services for now, while Horace filed for custody. "You don't have any grasp of the fact that what you've done is _wrong_, do you? Horace and I could have been killed on the Arian Freighter after Captain Kamda sent his vigilantes after us. The way I hear it, you're responsible for the deaths of several men . . ."

She smiled slightly at that, meeting his gaze briefly before returning to stretch out on her cot, her attention back on the IFB. She was unmoved, uncaring. After all, death paid well in her eyes.

"Starbuck, did you know that the maximum life expectancy of a fighter pilot that makes it past his first three sectons of combat is only eighty-seven logged centars," she said conversationally, plumping her pillow behind her head. "By my calculations, that makes you overdue. I guess my timing was a bit off. A shame."

Starbuck felt a cold chill run down his spine, his mortality staring him in the face at the same time as a horrified revulsion suffused him. She had a complete lack of remorse or guilt, and no empathy for her fellow man. Somehow he thought that if she could offer some regret or even some account of why she'd chosen him, he would be able to deal with this easier. Instead, like a harbinger of doom, she'd shaken him to the core. Without another word, he turned and paced briskly towards the hatch, hearing her lilting laughter mocking him as he fled the cellblock.

Walking out of there, it felt like a smothering cloud of malignancy was clinging to him, suffusing his very soul. He shook his head, still incredulous at the predicament he'd ended up in. He shouldn't have come here. He shouldn't have confronted her. He didn't want to know that there were humans in the universe as unfeeling as Cylons.

"You okay, buddy?"

"Great."

Starbuck beat a path straight past the waiting Apollo, brushing aside the hand that reached out to him, rushing down the corridor as if the very daggits of Hades hole were on his tail. Admittedly, he didn't have the greatest track record with women. It seemed to him that the few that he had actually let close had either died or rejected him at some point, Cassie being the sole exception. But never before had one unnerved him like Honour did, throwing his mortality in his face as if it didn't matter to her any more than what was on the IFB. Did he _really_ deserve that callousness? Why had he been so clueless about her true nature? Was he really such a poor judge of character . . . or did he migrate towards this woman of dubious nature because he could lump himself in that same category? It made a guy question a whole lot, the least of which being the logic of having a serious relationship. Especially if Honour was right and he was living on borrowed time.

He stepped onto the turbo lift, pressing a level randomly, not even having an inkling of where he wanted to go. Shifting his weight, he rocked on the balls of his feet repeatedly, waiting eternal microns before the lift came to a stop, offering egress. He bolted forward, pacing down another corridor, the clapping of his boots on the deck echoing in his brain, chasing him further and further from the heartless woman that wanted him dead, and had figured that his number was up.

He didn't even know how he ended up there, standing on the threshold uncertainly, not sure whether to stay or go. He held his hand in front of the entry chime for long microns, unable to get up the courage to follow through. His fingers curled into a tight fist as he struggled with turbulent emotions, unaccustomed to being besieged from within. After all that had happened, he had no real right to be here. He should be in the Officer's Club drowning his sorrows in cheap grog amongst undemanding and shallow company, like any other self-respecting Colonial Warrior. He hung his head, raking his hand through his hair, turning to go. This was wrong. All wrong.

"Hello, Starbuck."

Inexplicably, his chest tightened at the sound of Cassiopeia's voice, and he closed his eyes, feeling an unexpected intensity assault him. Her tone had been neutral, not dripping in accusation or sarcasm. All the same, he couldn't think of a single intelligent thing to say to explain his presence. As far as she knew, he was married to Honour, situating his wife and child in their new quarters.

"I . . . uh . . . I shouldn't have come . . ." he stuttered, unable to meet her gaze. He moved to brush past her, much as he'd done with Apollo.

Unlike the captain, Cassie wouldn't let him go. She put a hand on his sleeve, stepping in front of him just enough that he would have to push her aside to pass by. They both knew he wouldn't do that.

"I heard about what happened with Honour," she said softly, glancing at her chrono. "I have extra duty tonight. Commander Adama is ill. He's . . ."

"Ill? Nothing serious, I hope?" he replied.

"Aquarian Influenza. I'm sure he'll be fine, but of course, his age is a concern," she replied. "You have patrol in the morning?"

He nodded, trying to remember. "With Boomer. 0600."

"Come inside for a few centons?"

He hesitated. Her offer was more appealing with the humiliating burden of explaining himself suddenly gone. How she had found out about Honour, he wasn't sure, but he was just as certain that it didn't really matter. Ten to one, rumours loosely based on the day's events would race around the Battlestar at the speed of sound—the sound of gossiping personnel, to be more accurate. The door slid open and gentle but insistent hands guided him inside before he could decline her offer. She activated the lights, dimming them a micron later as the door closed behind him, shutting out the world.

Austere as most quarters on the Battlestar were, Cassie had a flare for mixing textiles, colour and scents to lend an exotic quality to the usually dour space. There was a tranquillity here that was rare on the _Galactica_. Starbuck held his breath as she slowly circled around him, stopping in front of him, her hands resting on his waist. She looked at him searchingly, only sincere concern on her beautiful features. Then she took a half step forward, embracing him warmly, pressing against him, but not saying a word.

Letting out a deep breath, he gave in to the closeness. He could feel knotted muscles begin to relax as her hands crept under his flight jacket, slowly rubbing a soothing path up and down his back. She smelled faintly of antiseptic wash, with the sweet underlying scent of lavender in her silken hair. He raised a hand to finger its luxuriant lengths, sighing as the weight of the twelve worlds seemed to ease itself off his shoulders.

"Don't let her get to you," she whispered in his ear. "This isn't your fault."

"But . . ."

"Shhhh," she whispered.

Then she kissed him.

If Honour was the harbinger of his doom, then Cassiopeia was the herald of his salvation. He pulled her to him, finding again in her sweet embrace everything that was good and right in life. All that Honour had stripped bare, Cassie gave back to him, breathing new life into him. All lingering traces of immuring gloom were vanquished by her vitality. When they came up for air, she was breathless, he was reborn.

"Maybe I . . . uh . . . shouldn't have done that," Cassie laughed lightly, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling as she smiled provocatively at him.

"Oh, no," Starbuck disagreed, grinning at her, his hand at the small of her back, keeping her close. "You most definitely _should_ have."

"Oh? Are you sure?" she teased him, her fingers brushing his hair from his eyes. "I probably should have given you a little time to _think_ with all that happened to you today."

He shook his head 'no'. "Actually, thinking is overrated."

"Really?" she purred. "And time?"

"Time is short and not to be wasted, especially for a Viper pilot," he replied. "After all, did you know that the maximum life expectancy of a fighter pilot that makes it past his first three sectons of combat is only eighty-seven logged centars?"

"You made that up!" she accused him playfully. "You'll say anything for a little sympathy."

"Guilty as charged," he said, reclaiming her lips for another passionate kiss.

Yeah, he'd come full circle in one day, from philandering Viper jock to husband and father, and then back again. Along the way he'd learned a little about women, and a lot about himself. If he took anything away from his experience with Honour it was that he was truly in no hurry to settle down or have a family. In fact, if the legacy of Honour drilled home anything to him, it was the fact that commitment and fatherhood were downright dangerous.

xxxxx

Fleeing from the Cylon tyranny, the last Battlestar, _Galactica_, leads a ragtag fugitive Fleet on a lonely quest, a shining planet known as Earth.


End file.
